




























































































































































COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















/ 


THE VALLEY OF 
GHOSTS 

M, 

BY 

EDGAR WALLACE 

Author of “The Clue of the New Pin,” 

“The Daffodil Murder,” etc., etc. 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1923 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(incorporated) 





PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

Printed by Geo. H. Ellis Co. (Inc.) Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A. 
Bound by the Boston Bookbinding Company, Cambridge, Massachusetts, U. S. A. 


SEP 29 *23 

©HI A759182 





TO MY FRIEND, 
J. S. E. 






















♦ 












CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE.I 

II. A HINT OF ABRAHAM SELIM.12 

III. A MAN WHO AVOIDED HIS OFFICE.l 8 

IV. TWO MEN DRUNK. 26 

V. THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS. 5 • • 37 

VI. THE TWENTY-FOURTH.45 

VII. MEETING STELLA.58 

VIII. THE DEATH SHOT.70 

IX. THE RING OF STELLA NELSON.77 

X. LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS.90 

XI. FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE.102 

XII. THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.112 

XIII. THE LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA.120 

XIV. A GAMEKEEPER WHO HEARD A SHOT.I 29 

XV. THE BED DRAWER.I 43 

XVI. THE INQUEST. 153 

XVII. A DIAMOND CLUSTER. 162 

XVIII. WHO WAS THE WOMAN?. 172 

XIX. THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 179 

XX. A VISIT TO THE HALL.IQI 

XXI. MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS.200 

XXII. MR. DOWNER FOLLOWS A LADY.211 

XXIII. AN INTERESTING INVALID.219 

XXIV. MR. WILMOTHS PROFESSION.228 

XXV. A MORNING AT SEA BEACH. 236 

XXVI. MEETING MRS. BONSOR. 246 

XXVII. THE GHOST OF A NAME.26o 

XXVIII. THE MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN. 267 

XXIX. MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS. 274 

XXX. THE STATEMENT OF MRS. CRAFTON-BONSOR . . . 28l 

XXXI. THE LAYING OF GHOSTS. 293 













































































































































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THE 

VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


CHAPTER ONE 

A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 

Fate and an easy-running Spanz brought Andrew 
Macleod to the environs of Beverley. The town 
itself is at the end of a reluctant branch line, and 
has no visible excuse for existence, or means of 
support. Yet, for some extraordinary reason, the 
people of Beverley did not starve and the queer 
little shops that formed its one broad, shaded street 
had the appearance of prosperity. This it could 
not have drawn from its aristocratic suburb, for 
Beverley Green had its supplies from the great de¬ 
partment stores elsewhere, and came only to the 
town for such stocks as had been overlooked in the 
ordering. 

Andy brought his long-bonneted car to a rest 
before the post office and got down. In five minutes 
he was chatting to headquarters, and the subject 
of his conversation was Allison John Wicker, alias 
Four-Eyed Scottie, from his practice of wearing 
spectacles. Scottie was one of the few men of his 
l 


2 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


profession who enjoyed walking. When the 
manager of the Regent Diamond Syndicate came 
to his office one Monday morning and found that 
somebody had saved him the bother of opening 
the large fire and thief-resisting safe by means 
of an acetylene blower, it was as clearly Scottie’s 
work as though he had left his receipt for the 
seven parcels of stones he had taken. Railway 
stations and ports of embarkation were instantly 
picketed by extra police, hotels were visited, and 
all constabularies warned. 

Andy Macleod, spending his holiday with a 
fishing rod and an accumulation of books which he 
had not time to read during the year, was dragged 
away from his recreation to organise the search. 

He had started life as Dr. Macleod, an assistant 
pathologist at headquarters, and had drifted into 
the profession of thief-catcher without exactly 
knowing how. Officially, he was still a pathologist, 
a man to be called to the witness-stand to testify 
the manner of deceased’s death; unofficially, though 
they called him “sir,” he was “Andy” to the youngest 
policeman that walked a beat. 

“He passed through Panton Mills three days ago 
on a walking tour. I’m pretty certain it was 
Scottie,” he said. “I’m quartering the country 
between here and Three Lakes. The local police 
swear that he hasn’t been near Beverley, which 
means that he must have been living under their 
noses. They are a bright lot; asked me if he had 
done anything wrong, and they have had full 


A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 


3 


particulars of the theft and a description of Scottie 
for a week.” 

A girl walked into the post office at this moment. 
Glancing sideways through the glass panel of the 
telephone booth, Andy noted her admiringly. 
Attractive—pretty—beautiful? All women look 
their best to all men in tailored costumes of 
severe cut. She was tall for a woman; slim, but 
not thin. 

‘‘Yes, I think so,” he answered his chief 
mechanically, his eyes on the girl. 

She raised her hand, and he saw a ring on the 
engagement finger; a gold ring with little emeralds, 
or they may have been sapphires—no, they were 
emeralds. He caught the sea-green of them. 

He had opened the door of the booth an inch 
after the secret portion of his report had been 
made, and with one free ear he caught the murmur 
of her voice. 

More than pretty, he decided, and admired the 
profile turned towards him. 

And then a curious thing happened. She must 
have looked at him when his eyes were turned. 
Possibly she asked who he was; more likely the 
garrulous old postmaster, to whom Andy had shown 
his card to facilitate his call, volunteered the 
information. Andy heard the word “detective.” 
From where he stood he had a clear view of her face. 

“Detective!” she no more than whispered the 
word, but he heard—and saw. Her hands gripped 
the edge of the counter and the colour went out of 


4 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


her face, leaving it a deathly white. Even the lips 
changed their hue queerly. 

So intent, so starred was he, that he took the 
receiver from his ear, and at that moment she turned 
and met his gaze. Fear, panic, horror were in those 
eyes. He had a sense of something trapped and 
tortured as he stared at her, open-mouthed. Her 
eyes left his, and she fumbled at the money on the 
counter, the change the old man had put there, her 
hands shaking so that at last she scooped the coins 
into her palm and went out of the office hurriedly. 

Unconscious of the fact that at the other end of 
the wire a puzzled police official was tapping the 
hook urgently, having his own views to express, 
Andy hung up the black cylinder and passed into 
the shop. 

“Who was that lady?” he asked as he paid the 
telephone charge. 

“That, sir? Why, that’s Miss Nelson, from the 
Green—Beverley Green, over by the hills. Won¬ 
derful place; you ought to see it. Lot of rich peo¬ 
ple live there. Mr. Boyd Salter, you’ve heard of 
him? And Mr. Merrivan, he’s a rich man, too, 
though he’s a bit mean, and oh, a lot of swell people. 
It’s a sort of a—what do you call it? A garden 
city, that’s what it is. Some of the biggest houses 
in the county. Mr. Nelson’s family lived there for 
years, long before there was any garden city. Re¬ 
member his grandfather; a fine old fellow he was.” 

The postmaster was prepared to offer detailed 
biographies of the favoured folk who lived at 


A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 


5 


Beverley Green, and Andy was anxious to catch an¬ 
other glimpse of the girl, and cut short the explana¬ 
tion. 

He saw her walking quickly down the middle of 
the road, and guessed that she was on her way to 
the railway station. 

He was puzzled and irritated. How might he 
explain her agitation? What had she to fear from 
detectives? What folly, big or small, had been 
responsible for the cold terror that had come to her 
eyes ? 

It was a waste of time to consider the cause. 
The folk of these little towns, picturesque, aloof 
from the world, where the stream of life seemed 
so idyllic and unruffled by the great passion storms 
which lash the surfaces of the cities, must inevitably 
experience crises no less tragic than these which 
disturb the people of the greater world. But- 

The word “detective,” implying, as it would, the 
secret investigations of the law, holds no discomfort 
for normal, law-abiding people. 

“Humph!” said Andy, and rubbed his smooth 
chin. “This won’t catch Scottie!” 

He drove the car out of the village, intending 
to push forward to the main road and begin his 
quartering of the net-work of secondary feeders 
which lie to the south from a point twenty miles 
away. 

Slowing to take a sharp bend, a mile or more 
from Beverley, he saw an opening in the hedge to 
the right. There was a broad, gravelled boulevard 



6 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


flanked by trees, the paths, bordered by well- 
trimmed turf, curved out of view. An artistic 
signpost said “Private Road to Beverley Green.” 

His speed had carried him beyond the opening, 
and he backed, looked thoughtfully at the sign, 
then turned into the drive. It was hardly likely 
that Scottie would pass into what was probably 
a dead-end. On the other hand, Scottie was a 
versatile genius and a great opportunist. And 
Beverley Green was a rich community. So Andy 
told himself by way of excuse, though in his heart 
he knew that his curiosity had its causation in a 
new interest. He wanted to see the house in which 
she lived. What kind of style did Mr. Nelson keep 
up? 

The drive twisted andHurned and at last took 
a sharper turn than usual, and Beverley Green, in 
all its summery beauty, came suddenly into view'. 
Andy reduced speed to a walking pace. Before 
him was a broad space. It was almost flat, and 
was fringed with an unbroken border of flowering 
shrubs. Within a dozen yards from the drive was 
a tee, an indication of a golf course which probably 
extended along the valley. Set about the green, 
half-revealed through the frees which surrounded 
them, were a dozen houses. A glimpse of a gable, 
a flash of a white-sashed window, a hint of timber¬ 
ing, the upstanding lift of a twisted Elizabethan 
chimney, indicated the type of architecture. 

Andy looked around for somebody to question. 
The road bent sharply left and right from where 


A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 


7 


he sat, and at the corner was a quaintly-shingled 
building which suggested a club. He guessed it 
was a notice-board attached to the gate-post, and 
was getting out of the car to investigate further 
when a man came into view around the corner on 
which the building was situated. 

“Prosperous city merchant—retired/’ said Andy 
mentally. “Black alpaca coat, broad-toed shoes, 
stiff collar, and a double watch-guard. Probably 
pompous, and wondering what the devil I mean by 
trespassing in these Elysian fields.” 

Certainly the newcomer eyed the intruder gravely, 
though it would be an exaggeration to say that he 
looked *in any way resentful. 

His age might have been anything between 
forty-five and sixty. The big, smooth face was 
unlined, and his gait was alert to the point of brisk¬ 
ness. A big man, he supported his stoutness so well 
that Andy did not notice that he was inclined to 
fat until some time later. 

The greeting he offered dispelled any doubt of 
welcome that the visitor may have harboured. 

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “You seem to be 
looking for somebody. The Green is a difficult 
locality for strangers; our houses have no names 
or numbers.” 

He laughed sedately. 

“I am not looking for anybody in particular,” 
said Andy, giving smile for smile. “I was led here 
by curiosity. It is a beautiful spot. I heard about 
it at Beverley.” 


8 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


The other inclined his head. 

“We get very few visitors-»-I nearly said ‘happily,’ 
but that would be unkind. The estate is privately 
owned by myself and my neighbours, and we have 
no inn to tempt visitors to stay. A guest house.” 
He waved his hand to the wisteria-covered building 
which Andy had thought might be a club. “We 
maintain that for visitors. Sometimes we cannot 
accommodate all our friends, and sometimes we 
have a distinguished—ah—person who is, so to 
speak, the guest of our little community. At pres¬ 
ent, for example,” he went on, “we have an emi¬ 
nent Canadian geologist.” 

“Happy man,” smiled Andy, “and happy com¬ 
munity. Are all these houses occupied ?” 

He asked the question well knowing that every 
house would be in occupation, but anticipating the 
form a reply would take. 

“Oh indeed, yes. That last house on the left 
is Mr. Pearson’s, the great architect, now of course 
retired. The next house with the gables is Mr. 
Wilmot’s, a gentleman who is—er—well, I don’t 
exactly know what he is, even though he is my 
nephew—shall we say something in the city? The 
next house, where you see the rambler roses, is Mr. 
Nelson’s—Kenneth Leonard Nelson, of whom you 
must have heard.” 

“The artist?” Andy was interested. 

“Exactly. A great artist. He has a studio, but 
you cannot see it from here; it is on the northern 
side. Artists, I understand, prefer the northern 


A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 


9 


light. The house on the far corner—you may not 
observe the corner from here, but there is a lane at 
the side leading to the tennis courts—that is my 
feudal mansion,” he chuckled good humouredly. 

So her father was Nelson the artist. Now what 
had he heard about Nelson the artist? The name 
suggested something unpleasant. 

“What is that big mansion on the side of the 
hill?” asked Andy. 

“That house on the hill?” replied the guide. 
“That, unhappily, is not of our community. It is, 
in fact, the real feudal castle around which we 
humble—er—peasants have built our hovels.” 

The conceit seemed to please him, and he re¬ 
peated “Built our hovels” before he went on: 

“That is Mr. Boyd Salter’s place. The family 
has lived here or hereabouts for centuries, sir. The 
Salters come down from—well, I won’t inflict their 
history upon you. Mr. Boyd Salter is a very rich 
man, but a semi-invalid.” 

Andy nodded, and the other went on: 

“There is our guest, Professor Bellingham. My 
name, by the way, is Merrivan.” 

So this was Mr. Merrivan. “Rich, but a bit 
mean,” was the description the postmaster gave. 

Andy was eyeing the approaching figure of the 
Canadian geologist—a spare man in baggy breeches 
with a studious stoop. 

“Been out on the hills collecting fossils. Quite 
a number have been found here,” explained Mr. 
Merrivan. 


1 


10 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“I think I know him rather well,” said Andy, 
more than interested. 

He walked across to meet the professor, and when 
they were separated by a few yards the geologist 
looked up and stopped. 

“Hard lines, Scottie,” said Andrew Macleod, 
with ill-simulated sorrow. “Are you going to make 
a fuss, or shall I take you somewhere to lunch ?” 

“Logic is my weakness,” confessed Scottie, “and 
if you’ll let me go up to my room to pack a few 
articles of raiment I’ll step along with you. I see 
you’ve got a car, but I’d rather walk.” 

Andy said nothing, but when they joined Mr. 
Merrivan: 

“The professor is going to show me some of his 
specimens,” he said pleasantly, “and thank you 
very much, Mr. Merrivan, for your kindness and 
courtesy.” 

“Perhaps you will come back one day and let 
me show you round?” invited the big man. 

“I should be delighted,” answered Andy, and 
meant it. 

He followed Scottie up the oaken stairs of the 
guest house to the delightful little room that he 
had occupied for two days. 

“Scepticism is the curse of this age,” said Scottie 
bitterly. “Do you think I wouldn’t have come back 
if you’d let me go alone to my room?” 

There were times when Scottie was childish, and 
Andy Macleod did not trouble to reply. 

The lank man stepped into the car, wearing on 


A GIRL IN A POST OFFICE 


ii 


his countenance an expression of sheer distaste. 

“There are too many motor-cars in these days,” 
he complained. “Lack of exercise is killing thou¬ 
sands every day. What do you want me for, Mac ? 
Whatever it is, I’ve got an alibi.” 

“Where did you find it? With the fossils?” de¬ 
manded his captor, and Scottie relapsed into a dig¬ 
nified silence. 


CHAPTER TWO 


A HINT OF ABRAHAM SELIM 

With Scottie lodged in the inadequate lock-up, 
Andy discovered that there were certain formalities 
that need be gone through before his prisoner could 
be transferred to the area where he must answer for 
his sins. 

“Where can I find one?” asked Andy when he 
was told that the transfer must be approved and 
ordered by the local justice. 

“Well, sir,” meditated the sergeant of police, 
“there’s Mr. Staining, but he’s ill; and there’s Mr. 
James Bolter, but he’s on his holidays; and there’s' 
Mr. Carrol, but, now I come to think of it, he’s gone 
up to the horse show. He breeds-” 

Andy interrupted him. 

“There is something in the air of this place which 
makes people talkative, sergeant,” he said patiently, 
“but perhaps I was a little obscure. I don’t want 
the names of the men who aren’t here. Is there 
anybody in the neighbourhood who is on the Com¬ 
mission of the Peace?” 

“There is one gentleman,” emphasised the ser¬ 
geant. “Mr. Boyd Salter. He’ll sign the order.” 
He added: “If he’s at home.” 


12 



- 'f 


A HINT OF ABRAHAM SELIM 13 


4 

P 


^ Andy grinned, and went in search of Mr. Boyd 
1 Salter. 

He found that the nearest way to the house 
avoided Beverley Green; in fact, Mr. Salter’s 
4, demon^e ran well into Beverley, and was reached 
through a pair of lodge gates at the end of the town. 
He had seen them before and wondered who lived 
beyond them. 

Beverley Hall was a handsome mansion of the 
type that Imgo Jones had made famous. 

It was a house of silence. The first sound he 
heard as he was taken into a spacious, stone-flagged 
hall was the ticking of a clock. The man-servant 
moved noiselessly to carry Andy’s visiting card, and 
Andy saw that he wore rubber-soled shoes. He 
was a long time gone, and when he returned he 
beckoned the caller forward. 

“Mr. Salter is a martyr to nerve trouble, sir,” he 
whispered. “If you would speak quietly to him 
he would be obliged, I am sure.” 

Andy expected to meet an invalid, and had a 
vision of a trembling figure propped in a cushioned 
chair. Instead he found a healthy-looking man of 
fifty who looked up quickly as, unannounced, Andy 
was shown into the room. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Macleod. What can I do 
for you ? I see you are on police business,” he said, 
examining the card. 

Andy explained the reason for his visit. 

“You needn’t lower your voice,” smiled the other. 
“I suppose Tilling told you? Sometimes I am 


14 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


rather jumpy, but this is one of my good days/’ 

He looked at the document which Andy put be¬ 
fore him and signed it. 

“Our friend is the jewel burglar, isn’t he?” he 
said. “Where has he been hiding?” 

“In your garden city,” said Andy, and a frown 
puckered Mr. Salter’s handsome face. 

“Beverley Green? At the guest house, of 
course ?” 

Andy nodded. 

“Did you meet any of the citizens?” 

“One; Mr. Merrivan.” 

There was nothing said for a little while, then: 

“A curious lot of people! Wilmot is a rum fish. 
I can’t quite get the measure of him. I’ve often 
thought he was an aristocratic burglar. What is 
the name of that fellow in the book-—Ruffles? Ah, 
Raffles, that’s it! A queer fish, Wilmot. Then 
there’s Nelson. There is a weird fellow! Drinks 
like the devil! He’d drink the sea dry.” 

It was then Andy remembered the story he had 
heard about the artist. 

“He has a daughter,” he suggested. 

“Ah, yes. Nice girl; very pretty. Wilmot is 
engaged to her or something of the sort. My son 
is a great news-gatherer when he’s at home. He 
ought to be in the police service—at school now. 
H’m.” 

He looked down at the warrant, blotted it, and 
passed it across to Andy. 


A HINT OF ABRAHAM SELIM 15 

“Mr. Merrivan seems a very nice man,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

The justice shook his head. 

“Know nothing about him whatever,” he said. 
“I’ve just said 'How d’ye do’ to him, nothing 
more. He appears an inoffensive gentleman. 
Rather a bore, but inoffensive. Talks too fluently; 
everybody does in Beverley.” 

To emphasise this local weakness he went on, 
without stopping, to give the history of Beverley 
and its people. Presently he spoke of the Hall. 

“Yes, it’s a beautiful little place, but the estate 
is a very expensive one to keep up. I’ve not been 
able to do what I should have done, if-” 

He looked quickly away, as though he feared his 
visitor could read his thoughts. 

It was some time before he spoke again. 

“Have you ever been associated with the devil, 
Mr. Macleod?” 

He was not joking. The look he shot at Andy 
was straight and stern. 

“I have associated with a number of minor 
devils,” smiled Andy, “but I cannot lay claim to 
knowing the father of them.” 

The eyes of Mr. Salter did not waver. They 
fixed Andy absently, it is true, but steadfastly, for 
fully thirty seconds. 

“There is a man in London called Abraham 
Selim,” he said, speaking slowly, “who is a devil, 
I am not telling you this as a police officer. I don’t 



i6 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


know why I am telling you at all. I think it comes 
of a natural association of ideas. I have had to sign 
many orders of arrest, but never once have I put 
pen to paper without thinking of this greatest of 
criminals. He is a murderer—a murderer!” 

Andy, startled, moved in his chair. 

“He has killed men; broken their hearts; ground 
them into the earth. He had a friend of mine like 
that!” He clasped his hand tight until the knuckles 
showed white. 

“Abraham Selim?” Andy could think of nothing 
else to say, and his host nodded. 

“If, as I believe, he will one day make a slip and 
fall into your hands, send me word. No, no, I 
don’t mean that; he will never be trapped!” 

“Is he Semitic—or Turkish? His name sug¬ 
gests both origins.” 

Boyd Salter shook his head. 

“I’ve never seen him. I’ve not met anybody who 
has,” he said surprisingly. “Now off you go, Mr. 
Macleod. What is your rank, by the way?” 

“I’ve been trying to discover for years,” said 
Andy. “I’m by way of being a medical.” 

“A doctor?” 

Andy nodded. 

“I do a lot of analytical work. I’m sort of 
assistant pathologist.” 

Boyd Salter smiled. 

“Then I should have called you ‘doctor/ ” he 
said. “Edinburgh, of course.” 

Andy agreed. 


A HINT OF ABRAHAM SELIM 17 


“I’ve a weakness for doctors. My nerves are— 
terrible. Is there any cure?” 

“Psycho-analysis,” said Andy promptly. “It en¬ 
ables you to take out your inhibited worries and 
stare ’em out of countenance. Good-bye, sir.” 

There was no more effectual way of giving Andy 
Macleod his conge than to talk medicines with him. 

“Good-bye—er—doctor. You look very young 
for such a position—thirty or thirty-one?” 

“You guessed midway, sir,” laughed Andy, and 
went out. 


CHAPTER THREE 


A MAN WHO AVOIDED HIS OFFICE 

Stella Nelson left the post office in a panic. 
Though she did not turn her head, she was conscious 
that the good-looking, strong-faced man she had 
seen in the telephone box was looking after her. 
What would he think, he, a man to whom, in all 
probability, the flicker of a eyelash had significance? 

She had nearly swooned at the shock of that word 
“detective,” and he had seen her sway and turn 
pale, and must have wondered what was the cause. 

She wanted to run, and it required all her reserve 
of will to keep her from increasing her already 
hurried pace. She went rapidly down the declivity 
to the railway station and found she had half an 
hour to wait, and only then remembered that when 
she had left the house she had given herself time 
to order a number of commodities that were required 
for the kitchen. Should she go back? Dare she 
face the grave scrutiny which had so terrified her? 

Eventually she did go back. The spur of self- 
contempt urged her, yet she was relieved to discover 
that the blue car had gone. She hurried from 
store to store with her orders, and then, after a 
moment’s hesitation, went across to the post office 
and bought some stamps. 

18 


MAN WHO AVOIDED OFFICE 19 


“What did you say that man was?” 

With an effort she kept her voice steady. 

“A detective, miss,” said the old postmaster with 
relish. “You could have knocked me down with a 
feather duster when he showed me his card. I 
don’t know what he’s after.” 

“Where has he gone?” she asked, dreading the 
reply. 

“He’s gone up to Beverley Green, miss, according 
to what he told me.” 

The postmaster’s memory was not of the brightest, 
or he would have recalled the fact that Andy had 
expressed no such intention. 

“To Beverley Green?” she said slowly. 

“That’s it, miss—Macleod!” he said suddenly. 
“That’s the name. I couldn’t remember it. Mac¬ 
leod.” He pronounced it “Mac-lo-ed.” 

“Macleod,” she corrected him. “Is he staying 
here?” 

“No, miss, he’s just passing through. Banks, 
the butcher, wouldn’t believe that we had a detective 
in the town—a real man from headquarters. He’s 
the fellow who gave evidence in that Marchmont 
poisoning murder. Do you remember it, miss ? A 
wonderful murder it was, too. A man poisoned 
his wife, being anxious to marry another lady, and 
this Macleod’s evidence got him hanged. Banks 
told me that, but I remembered it the moment he 
spoke. I’ve got a wonderful memory for murder 
cases.” 

She went back at a more leisurely pace to the 


20 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


station and took a ticket. She was undecided, tor¬ 
mented by doubt and fear. She hated the idea of 
going away from the place, even for a few hours 
whilst that man was prying into heaven knows what, 
she told herself fretfully. 

Again she walked back toward the village, and 
then she heard the scream of the train whistle. No, 
she would carry out her original idea. One danger 
at any rate was definite. She hated Macleod. He 
was an enemy. She hated him, but she feared him 
too. She shivered at the recollection of that en¬ 
quiring stare of his, which said so plainly: “You 
have something to fear.” She tried hard to read, 
but her mind was never upon the newspaper, and, 
though her eyes followed the lines, she saw nothing, 
read nothing. 

Nearing her destination, she wondered that she 
had ever dreamt of going back. She had only a 
week to settle this ghastly business of hers—exactly 
a week—and every day counted. She might be 
successful. She might be returning that afternoon, 
her heart singing with happiness, passing by these 
very fields and bridges, her mind at peace. 

Mechanically she noticed the objects of the land¬ 
scape as the train flashed through. She must re¬ 
member to register her emotions when they came 
to that white farm-house on the return journey. 
By the time she saw it again she might not have 
a care in the world. 

Dreams and journey ended simultaneously. She 
hurried out through the big terminus, crowded with 


MAN WHO AVOIDED OFFICE 


21 


jostling, horrible people, who would not so much 
as turn their heads if she died that moment. A 
taxi-cab came to her signal. 

“Ashlar Building?” he pondered, and then: 
“I know where you mean, miss.” 

The Ashlar Building was a great block of offices; 
she had never seen it before, and had no idea as to 
how she was to find the man on whom she was 
calling. Inside the hall, however, and covering 
both walls, was an indicator, and her eyes went 
down column after column of names until they 
stopped. 

“309, Abraham Selim.” 

The office was on the fifth floor. 

It was some time before she found it, for it stood 
in a corner of a long wing—two office doors, one 
marked “Private” the other “Abr. Selim.” 

She knocked at the door, and a voice said: 

“Come in.” 

A small rail separated the office from the narrow 
gangway in which callers were permitted to stand. 

“Yes, miss?” 

The man who advanced to her was brusque and 
a little hostile. 

“I want to see Mr. Selim,” she said, and the 
young man shook his well-pomaded head. 

“You can’t see him, miss, without an appoint¬ 
ment,” he said, “and even then he won’t talk to you.” 
He stopped suddenly and stared at her. “Why, 
Miss Nelson!” he said. “I never expected to see 
you here.” 


22 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


She flushed, and strove vainly to recall where he 
had ever seen her. 

“You remember me, miss—Sweeny/’ he said, 
and her face went a deeper red. 

“Why, of course, Sweeny.” 

She was embarrassed, humiliated, at this dis¬ 
covery. 

“You left Mr. Merrivan’s service rather hurriedly, 
didn’t you?” 

He was uncomfortable in his turn. 

“Yes, I did, miss.” He coughed. “I had a bit 
of a disagreement with Mr. Merrivan. A very 
mean gentleman, and awfully suspicious.” He 
coughed again. “Did you hear nothing, miss?” 

She shook her head. The Nelsons did not keep 
their servants long enough to reach the stage of 
intimacy where they could gossip with them, even 
if they were so inclined. 

“Well, the fact is,” said Sweeny, a trifle relieved 
that he had the opportunity of getting in his version 
first. “Mr. Merrivan missed some silver. Very 
foolishly I had lent it to a brother of mine to copy. 
He was very interested in old silver, being a working 
jeweller, and when Mr. Merrivan missed the 

silver-” He coughed again, and grew weakly 

incoherent. He had been accused of stealing—he! 
And he had been fired without ado. “I’d have been 
starving now, miss, only Mr. Selim got to hear of 
me and gave me this job. It is not much,” he added 
depreciatingly, “but it is something. I often wish 



MAN WHO AVOIDED OFFICE 23 

I was back in the happy valley. That’s what I 
always called Beverley Green.” 

She cut short his flow of explanation and reminis¬ 
cence. 

“When can I see Mr. Selim?” she asked. 

He shook his head. 

“I can’t tell you that, miss. I’ve never seen him 
myself.” 

“What!” she said, staring at him in amazement. 

“It’s a fact, miss. He’s a moneylender—why, 
of course, I needn’t tell you that.” 

He looked knowingly at her, and she felt ready to 
sink through the floor from very shame. 

“All his business is done by letter. I receive 
visitors and fix appointments. Not that he ever 
keeps them,” he said, “but the clients fill in blanks— 
you understand, miss, the amount of money they 
want, the security they can offer, and all that sort 
of thing—and I leave them here in that safe for 
Mr. Selim when he comes.” 

“When does he come?” 

“God knows,” said the other piously. “He must 
come, because the letters are taken away two or 
three times a week. He communicates with the 
people himself. I never know how much they bor¬ 
row or how much they pay back.” 

“But when he wants to give instructions does 
he write them ?” asked the girl, her curiosity getting 
the better of her disappointment. 

“He telephones. I don’t know where from. It’s 


24 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


a queer job. Only two hours a day, and only four 
days a week.” 

"Is there no possibility of seeing him?” she asked 
desperately. 

"Not a scrap,” said Sweeny, becoming important 
again. "There’s only one way of conducting busi¬ 
ness with Abe—he wouldn’t be mad if he knew I 
called him Abe, not at all—and that is by corre¬ 
spondence.” 

She dropped her eyes to the counter and stood 
awhile thinking. 

"Is Mr. Nelson quite well, miss?” asked Sweeny. 

"Very well thank you,” she said hastily. "Thank 

you, Sweeny, I-” It was hateful to take a 

servant into her confidence. "You won’t mention 
the fact that you saw me here?” 

"Certainly not,” said the virtuous Sweeny. 
"Lord, miss, if you knew the people who come up 
here you would be surprised. Actors and actresses, 
people you read about in the daily papers, ministers, 
religious ones-” 

"Good-bye, Sweeny.” 

She closed the door on his recital. 

Her knees wobbled as she walked down the stairs, 
which she took in preference to the lift, for she 
knew now just how much she had counted upon the 
interview. With despair in her heart she saw the 
iron inevitability of everything. What could nowi 
arrest the sword already swinging for the blow? 
Nothing, nothing! The man she wanted she could 





MAN WHO AVOIDED OFFICE 25 


not reach—the only man, she told herself bitterly, 
the only man! 

Looking up on the journey back she saw the 
white farmhouse and could have wept. 

She changed at the junction and arrived at 
Eeverley at five o’clock, and the first person she saw 
as she stepped off the train was the calm, capable, 
grey-eyed man. He had seen her first, and his eyes 
were on hers when she stepped down. For a second 
her heart stood still, and then she saw at his side the 
man with the handcuffs on his wrist—the Canadian 
professor! So that was whom he was after—the 
Canadian professor, who had talked so entertain¬ 
ingly on fossils. 

Scottie knew a great deal about fossils; it was 
his favourite subject. In prison, if one takes up a 
subject, one usually discovers three or four books in 
the library that have a bearing upon the matter. 
On Scottie’s other side stood a uniformed police¬ 
man. As for the criminal, he met her horrified 
glance with a bland smile. She supposed that peo¬ 
ple got callous and hardened after a while, and the 
shame of captivity ceased to be. But there must 
have been a time when even that lean-faced man 
would have dropped his eyes before the gaze of a - 
woman who had so much as spoken to him. 

She glanced quickly at Andy and went on. The 
relief! The dismal despair of the return journey 
was lightened. She was almost cheerful as she 
came up the rose-bordered path to the door. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


TWO MEN DRUNK 

In Nelson’s house you stepped from the street to a 
big hall, around three sides of which ran a gallery 
reached by a broad flight of stairs. 

Nelson was standing at an easel examining a 
picture, and his face was hidden from her. But 
there was no need to see his face. The attitude was 
eloquent. He turned and surveyed her with a 
certain strange hauteur which a king might reserve 
for unwelcome intruders. He was a man with a 
narrow face, slightly bald. The nose was thin and 
aristocratic, the chin and mouth a little weak. A 
thin brown moustache, turning grey, gave him a 
quasi-military appearance, in keeping with a mood 
which at the moment was certainly militant. 

“Well,” he said, “you have come back.” 

He stalked slowly towards her, his hands behind 
him, his thin shoulders thrown back. 

“Are you aware that I have had no lunch?” he 
asked ominously. 

“I told you I was going to town this morning. 
Why didn’t you ask Mary?” 

She dreaded the reply. 

“I have discharged Mary,” he said, and Stella 
groaned inwardly. 


26 


TWO MEN DRUNK 


27 

“You haven’t discharged the cook by any chance ?” 
she asked. 

“I have also discharged the cook.” 

“Did you also pay them their wages?” she de¬ 
manded, angered beyond restraint. “Oh, father, 
why do you do these things?” 

“I discharged them because they were imperti¬ 
nent,” said Mr. Nelson with a gesture. “That is 
sufficient. I am master in my house.” 

“I wish you were a little more master of your¬ 
self,” she said wearily, as she walked across to the 
mantelpiece, took down a bottle, and held it to the 
light. “Why do you always discharge the servants 
when you are drunk, father?” 

“Drunk?” he said, shocked. 

She nodded. 

In such moments as these she did not use 
euphemisms; it was not the occasion for delicacy. 

“To-morrow you will tell me you have no recollec¬ 
tion of anything that happened, and you will be 
very penitent. But I shall have to go into Beverley 
and find two servants who have not been discharged 
by us. They will be difficult to find.” 

Nelson raised his eyebrows. 

“Drunk ?” he repeated, but she took no notice 
of him, and presently, in the kitchen, where she was 
preparing her meal, she heard him going up the 
stairs, repeating “Drunk” and laughing sardonically 
at intervals. 

She £at by the spotless kitchen table and made 
her meal of a cup of chocolate and a slice of bread 


2 & THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

and butter. She looked for the cheese, though she 
knew her search would be fruitless. It was an¬ 
other characteristic of Mr. Nelson that in his “cups” 
he had a partiality for cheese. If he had done any 
work—she went out into the studio at the back of 
the house. The canvas she had placed for him that 
morning had not felt so much as the touch of a 
charcoal stick. Stella Nelson sighed. 

“What’s the use?” she asked, addressing her 
query to one of the many half-finished studies that 
hung on the wall. 

She was working at her household accounts at a 
small writing-table in a corner of the studio when 
she heard the bell tinkle, and went to the front door. 
It was dusk, and the figure of the man who had rung 
had retreated some half-a-dozen paces from the 
door, so that at first she could not distinguish 
him. 

“Oh, is that you, Arthur? Come in, won’t you. 
Father’s gone to bed.” 

“I guessed he had.” 

Mr. Arthur Wilmot waited until she had switched 
on the lights in the studio before he came in. 

‘You went to town to-day?” 

“Did you see me?” she asked quickly. 

“No. Somebody told me; I think it was Merri- 
van. And did you hear about our Canadian 
geologist? He is quite an important burglar; im¬ 
portant enough to have a man like Andrew Macleod 
looking for him. He’s the pathologist.” 

“Who is Andrew Macleod?” she asked. She 


TWO MEN DRUNK 


29 

knew at once that Andrew Macleod was the man 
with the grey eyes, but she wanted to be sure. 

“He’s a detective. Well, he’s not exactly a de¬ 
tective ; I believe he’s a doctor—a pathologist. He 
only takes the big cases, and the professor is a pretty 
big man in his business. ‘Scottie’ I think they call 
him; at least, that is how Mr. Macleod addressed 
him.” 

“I must have seen him at the station,” she said; 
“rather a good-looking man with peculiar eyes.” 

“I wouldn’t call Scottie good-looking,” said Wil- 
mot, and she was so confused that she did not cor¬ 
rect the mistaken impression he had formed. 

“I can’t ask you to stay very long,” she said. 
“We have lost our domestic staff.” 

“Again?” he said in surprise. “Oh, no, that’s 
too bad! Really, I think your father is impossible. 
That means you’ve got to be cook and housemaid 
until you get somebody in.” 

“With a penitent parent most anxious to assist,” 
she said savagely, “and all the time getting in my 
way! It is one of the crosses we have to bear, and 
father is really a wonderful darling when-” 

It was on the tip of the young man’s tongue to 
ask when was Mr. Nelson ever completely sober. 
He was too wise, however, to let it go any farther. 
Yet not so wise, as it transpired. 

“To what part of the city did you go?” he asked. 
She was over by the desk, tidying her papers. 

“Why?” she asked, looking across at him. 

“Oh, I—.just asked-■” he said lamely. “I 




30 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


wish Fd known you were in town. We’d have gone 
to lunch somewhere.” 

“I have a soul above food when I go to the city,” 
she said. “What is it you do, Arthur?” she went 
on. “I *have asked you that question more or less 
obliquely before. Permit me the luxury of a real 
indiscretion. Is it an indiscretion to ask you what 
you do for a living?” 

He was silent. 

“I just do things,” he said vaguely. 

“Have you an office?” 

He hesitated, then nodded. 

“Yes, I have an office,” he said. 

“Where?” 

She saw the quick pucker of brow, and then: 

“Mostly I use other .people’s offices. I have any 

number of friends, and my-” he stopped again. 

“I see my clients as near their homes as I can.” 

“You’re not a lawyer and you’re not a doctor.” 
She ticked off the two professions on her fingers. 
“You’re not a broker. Really, Arthur, you’re al¬ 
most as mysterious as”—a silence—“as Mr. Scottie, 
as you call him, our poor professor. And now,” 
she said briskly, “I think you had better go. I 
am not a stickler for the proprieties” 1 —there was 
a bump overhead, and she looked up—“but when 
my parent has finally retired—I think he is just 
taking his boots off—you will have to retire also.” 

“I suppose,” he began awkwardly, “you haven’t 
thought any more—about—I don’t want to rush 
you or take advantage of—of things-” 




TWO MEN DRUNK 


3 i 


She looked at him kindly enough, and took him 
in from the top of his tidy hair to the points of his 
polished shoes. He had a broad face and a small 
black moustache (it sometimes reminded Stella of 
a black caterpillar that had come to rest across 
his upper lip), and there were times when he ap¬ 
peared a little ridiculous. For some reason he was 
not so to-night and her heart went out to him in 
sympathy. 

“I have thought about it, Arthur,”' she said 
quietly, “but it is wholly impossible. I really do 
not want to marry anybody. And now go home 
and forget all about it. ,, 

He sat, his eyes looking at the floor, his finger¬ 
tips touching, and a silence followed; she did not 
care to break in upon thoughts which she guessed 
were not too happy. 

Suddenly: 

“Now, Stella, perhaps you had better drop that 
little-boy-don’t-bother attitude,” he said. “You’re a 
woman and I’m a man. I’m offering you some¬ 
thing. I’m not exactly empty-handed as it is, but 
when Merrivan dies—well, I’m his only relative. 
You’re broke, and you’ve been up to some damned 
folly. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll know sooner 
or later. You can’t stay in Beverley Green much 
longer. Your father has drunk two mortgages on 
to this house and he’ll drink the furniture before 
he’s through. I dare say you think it will be fine 
and large to earn your living, but it isn’t. Five 
employers in seven will want to cuddle you, I know. 


32 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Fm willing to put that poor soak into a good 
‘nebriates’ home. It will be kill or cure, and, any¬ 
way, it has got to come to that. Lin speaking 
plainly. I’ve tried the other way and it hasn’t 
worked. You’re woman enough to see that it is 
kindest to be cruel. I want you, Stella; I want 
you more than I’ve wanted anything. And I 
know!” 

This significantly. Her lips moved, but the 
question she put had no sound. 

“I know just how bad your affairs are, and I tell 
you that I am going to use my knowledge to get 
you. There isn’t a low-down thing on earth that 
I won’t do to get you. That’s straight !” 

They had been on such good terms that the 
reticences which separate ordinary friends from one 
another had been thawed away. He was the only 
man in the world, with the exception of her father, 
who addressed her by her Christian name. She 
called him “Arthur” naturally. To Stella Nelson 
he was a type of young business man who played 
tennis, danced well, talked about himself with satis¬ 
faction, and owned a mid-opulent car. He was 
the most engaging of that type she had met, and she 
had studied him sufficiently well to know exactly 
what he would do in any given set of circumstances. 

Her first sensation when he began to speak was 
one of dismay and chagrin. She was not hurt; 
it was a long time before she was hurt. But she 
was annoyed by the mistake she had made. She 
had felt that way when at a bridge party she had 


TWO MEN DRUNK 


33 


inadvertently or abstractedly led the wrong card, 
knowing that it was the wrong card, and had lost 
the rubber in consequence. She had an absurd 
desire to apologise to him for having misjudged 
his character, but, even had she not recognised its 
absurdity, she was incapable of speech. She was 
wrong, not he. He was right, natural, his own 
self, aggressive and “hell-sure.” The Canadian 
professor had used that expression in her hearing 
and it had tickled her. Arthur Wilmot was hell- 
sure of himself, of his advantageous position, o i 
her. 

Then she found her voice. 

“You’d better go, Arthur,” she said gently. 

In age she was little more than a child. She 
felt motherly toward him. He was so pathetically 
foolish that she felt sorry for him. 

“I’ll go when I want to,” he said. “If you want 
me thrown out call your father. Why don’t you? 
Call the servants he fired! You think I’m being a 
cad, but I’m underlining and italicizing the fact 
that you are alone, not in this house, but in the 
world.” 

She had found her strength and her weapon. 

“And you are being the strong, talkative man. 
The silent variety was sure to produce his opposite 
sooner or later,” she said. 

She leant against the back of a chair, her hands 
behind her. Her poise was disconcerting to this 
stormer of citadels. Neither hectic defiance nor 
surrender met him, but the consciousness that there 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


34 

was some hidden reserve. He felt it coming and 
was uneasy. 

“I’m not frantically annoyed by your—I am try¬ 
ing to think of a good description—tragic clown¬ 
ing; clowning because it was intended to be tragic. 
I don’t want to marry you, Arthur, because—well, 
you admitted that of yourself you have no particu¬ 
lar quality or charm, didn’t you? You must 'get 
me’ by virtue of your better financial position. 
That is snobbish in you, isn’t it ? Or by blackmail, 
or some other thing. The villain in the melodrama 
does that. You should have had a green limelight 
focused on you—the strong, talkative man and the 
weak, silent woman. That would be novel, wouldn’t 
it? You are the second drunken man I have met 
to-day, only you have swallowed a more potent in¬ 
toxicant. You’re vanity-drunk, and you’ll find it 
hard to get sober again.” 

Her voice never lost its command of him. He 
writhed, made grunting little noises. Once he 
tried to break in on her, but in the end he was beaten 
down, and arrested the employment of arguments 
which he had so carefully thought out in a shrink¬ 
ing fear that they would sound silly even to him¬ 
self. 

She crossed to the door and opened it. 

“I only want to say-” he began, and she 

laughed. 

“You still want to say something?” she asked. 

He walked out without a word, and she closed 
and locked the door behind him. 



TWO MEN DRUNK 


35 


She stood with one hand on the knob, thinking, 
her head bent low in the attitude of one who was 
listening. But she was only thinking, and still in 
thought she put out the lights and went upstairs to 
her room. It was very early to go to bed, but there 
was no reason why she should stay below. She 
undressed slowly by the light of the moon. Her 
room was on the top floor, on the same level as that 
of the servants. It was the gable window which 
Andrew Macleod had seen, and she chose it because 
it gave her a view uninterrupted by the trees. 

She pulled a dressing-gown over her pyjamas 
and, throwing open the casement windows leant 
her elbows on the ledge and looked out. The world 
was a place of misty hues. The light flooding the 
central green turned the grass to a dove grey. The 
beams caught the white scar of old Beverley Quarry, 
and it showed like a big oyster-shell against the 
wooded slope of the hill. A night of peace; no 
sound but the faint screech of an owl from the 
hills and the crunching of feet on the gravel road. 
Tramp, tramp, tramp, like the measured march of 
a soldier. Who was abroad? She did not recog¬ 
nise the leisurely footstep. Then he came into view. 

Looking down between the branches of two trees 
she saw a man, and knew him before he turned his 
face enquiringly toward the house. 

The detective with the grey eyes—Andrew 
Macleod! 

She bit her lip to check the cry that rose, and, 
stepping back, closed the windows stealthily. 


36 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Her heart was thumping painfully; she almost 
heard the “Ugh!” of it: 

The detective! She crept to the windows and 
looked out, and, waiting, she pulled them open. 
There was no sound, not even the distant sound of 
feet on gravel. In a moment she saw him. He was 
walking across the grass, and soon after disappeared. 
There came to her the drone f of a motor that died 
away to nothing. 

She staggered to her bed and sat down. 

At that moment Arthur Wilmot was torturing 
himself with speculations. What would she think of 
him? He might have spared himself that sleep¬ 
less night. She had forgotten that Arthur Wilmot 
existed. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

Waiting on the station platform, Scottie had 
grown suddenly communicative, even rhetorical. 

“You think that you’re tolerably well acquainted 
with all the dirt of life, Macleod; because you know 
the hot spots in town, the Chink pipe cellars, and the 
silk curtains and divan emporiums, that you know 
it all. I admit you’re not so hell-sure as some of 
those misapplications they call detectives, and your 
doctoring has taken you down to the lining of things, 
but you don’t know it all.” 

“I don’t,” confessed Andy. 

“That is where some of you people go wrong— 
not you, I admit, but some of you coppers. It isn’t 
the dive and the thieves’ kitchen, or the place where 
the scum and scrapings are found—little hooks who 
reckon they’re Rothschildren when they touch a 
fiver—it isn’t these that are the bad places.” He 
looked round. The county policeman who was 
escorting him to town was not listening. “If 
you want to find tabulated hell go to Beverley 
Green!” 

Andy eyed him keenly and felt an inexplicable 
thrill run down his spine. 

“What do you mean? Did you hear anything?” 

37 


38 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

Scottie conveyed a negative with a curl of his lips. 

“No, nothing; but I smelt it. I’m sensitive to 
—what’n hell’s the word? Atmosphere, that’s it. 
You’ll snigger at that, but it was a fortune to me in 
what I might term my unregenerate days. I’ll let 
you snigger now, but you won’t laugh when you see 
the size and appearance of my alibi. In those days 
that sort of creepy feeling has saved me many a long 
stretch of wasted time. I’ve been in a prison when 
they brought in a man to be hanged. Nobody knew 
he was there; he was transferred the day before 
his execution, because the flooring of the death house 
caught fire. Fact! And I knew he was in the 
prison, knew the hour he came in. That is how I 
feel about Beverley Green. There is something— 
evil about it. Queer word for me to use, Macleod, 
eh? They touch your elbow as you walk—ghosts! 
Laugh! But I tell you there’s a bunch of ’em! 
That’s how I’ve named it the Valley of Ghosts! 
Now I’ll tell you something that would look bad 
against me if you put it in the charge. But I trust 
you, Macleod, because you’re different to the general 
run of bulls; you’re a gentleman. I carried a gun. 
Always had one in my kit, but never carried one in 
my jeans before. I did. I had it on me when you 
pinched me. I chucked it away as we drove into 
Beverley. I won’t tell you where, for you didn’t 
see me do it.” 

“When you pretended to yawn as we were coming 
round the bend into the town,” said Andy. l ‘But 
we won’t mention that, and I’ll countermand the 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


39 

order I gave to search the ditches. Why, Scottie, 
you’re not easily scared.” 

Scottie clicked his lips. He was quite serious. 

“I don’t know. I’m not nervy; never was. 
Not afraid of anything human. I was just—well— 
shooting stars used to give me the same creep. It 
was a fear. I let it out yesterday to Merrivan, the 
Community-Barker-” 

Andy grinned at the tribute to Mr. Merrivan as 
the advertising agent of, and guide to, Beverley 
Green. 

“Not a bad fellow. He’s forgotten how to learn, 
but that comes with fat. Not a bad fellow. He 
said the same thing—after I’d said it. Agreed with 
me. Maybe he’d agree, with anybody; he’s ac¬ 
commodating. But it seemed to me that I’d put 
into words all that he would have thought if the 
Lord had given him the power of thinking. Mac- 
leod, go and stay a day or so in Beverley Green and 
smell it yourself—something brooding, the dead 
silence before the flash of lightning that hits 
your house—and here’s the train. If you’re 
called to give evidence about me, say the good 
word.” 

“Have I ever said anything against you, Scottie ?” 
asked Andy reproachfully. “Good luck to the 
alibi!” 

Scottie winked. 

It was at that moment that the train stopped and 
Stella Nelson got out. Andy’s eyes followed her 
until she was out of sight. 



40 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“And she’s in it somewhere,” whispered Scottie, 
almost in his ear. “So long, Macleod.” 

So Scottie went off to the bar of justice, a less 
disastrous experience than he had anticipated, for his 
alibi was well and truly laid, and the evidence of four 
apparently respectable persons who were playing 
cards with him at the moment the crime was com¬ 
mitted was unshaken by the scorn of the prosecu¬ 
tion and unmoved by the deft questions of a scepti¬ 
cal judge. 

Andy had promised himself the pleasure of a 
moonlight drive across country to the holiday place 
whence he had been dragged. Evidence of arrest 
would be given by the inspector in charge of the 
case, to whom the receiving of the prisoner from 
the county policeman constituted arrest. If Andy’ ! s 
presence was necessary in court it would only mean 
a day in town. 

Scottie’s words had bitten into the surface of his 
mind as acid bites into a plate. When he went 
back to the inn where he had garaged the car he 
had no intention of leaving Beverley, although he 
was embarrassed to discover that his identity was 
public property, and the sparse but human popula¬ 
tion of Beverley turned to look awfully after him as 
he passed. 

If he had no intention of leaving Beverley that 
night, he had less thought of paying a visit to 
Beverley Green. Subconsciously he may have 
already decided his action, but consciously he was 
obeying a sudden impulse, when, after dinner, he 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


4i 


had his car out and drove towards the happy com¬ 
munity. He turned at the guest house, shut off his 
engine, and extinguished his lights. The moon was 
at its full, and its magic was working powerfully 
within him. 

He stood for a long time greedily absorbing the 
delicate beauty of the scene, and then he crossed the 
green, and again subconsciously his feet carried him 
in the direction of the Nelson home. 

An oblong of yellow light suddenly appeared; the 
door had opened, and he stopped in the shadow of 
a clump of rhododendrons, one of many that edged 
the village green. 

He saw a man come out, and there was something 
in his gait that immediately attracted Andy’s atten¬ 
tion. It was literally true of Andy that his study 
of mankind was man. A grimace, a movement of 
the hands, the very way a man sat down to table 
and unfolded his napkin, had a meaning to this 
student. 

“There goes one who is in a very bad temper,” 
he thought, and watched the form of Arthur Wilmot 
as he strode wrathfully along the gravelled road. 
He threw open the gate of his own house and paused. 
As if a thought had struck him, he came out again, 
closed the gate, and continued his walk, turning into 
a house that stood at the corner of the lane—Mr. 
Merrivan’s house, Andy noted; and remembered that 
they were uncle and nephew. 

He walked on, still keeping to the shadow of the 
bushes. Something—a twinge of apprehension.— 


42 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


had communicated itself to him. He was imag¬ 
inative in a practical way, but he was certainly not 
as susceptible as Scottie claimed to be. He had 
passed the burglar’s narrative under review, and, 
allowing for certain natural extravagances of 
language, there remained his natural sincerity. 
Andy had discounted the fear which the man had 
so graphically described as part and portion of the 
extravagance, but now he himself was experiencing 
something of the same vague dread. It was as 
though his soul was passing under the shadow of a 
menace. He conceived that menace in the shape 
of a gigantic figure with an upraised sword, and 
smiled to himself at the romantic conceit. 

Nevertheless, he kept to the shadows, and stopped 
opposite Mr. Merrivan’s house. What made him 
do it he never knew. He was jeopardising a better 
acquaintance with the people of Beverley Green, 
and, by all standards of behaviour, he was acting 
unpardonably. The gate of Mr. Merrivan’s house 
was open as Arthur Wilmot had left it, and crossing 
the road, he passed through, walking on the grass 
border of the drive. 

It was a house of many windows, he saw, when 
he was clear of the obstructing trees—white, owlish 
windows, which the moon had transmuted into 
polished silver. There was no sign of light, and he 
followed the border until he stood under a window 
on the entrance floor, and then, with startling clear¬ 
ness, he heard a voice. 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


43 

“You won’t! By God, you won’t! I’ll see you 
dead before you do!” 

It was not Merrivan speaking. He guessed it 
must be the visitor. Presently he heard a murmur 
of sound. The window was opened a few inches 
at the top. Behind, he guessed, were heavy curtains, 
and the speakers were in this room. And now he 
heard Merrivan distinctly. 

“You’re ridiculous, you’re absurd, my dear 
man. I am not afraid of your threats. And now 
I will tell you something—something that will 
surprise you. I know—mysterious occupation in 
the city-” 

And then the voices dropped, and, although Andy 
put his ear to the pane, he could not distinguish 
anything more, only he heard the quick, urgent 
murmur of the visitor’s voice, and once Mr. Mer¬ 
rivan laughed. 

Then he caught the moving of a chair and went 
back the way he had come, standing by the bushes 
until Arthur Wilmot came out, and walking more 
slowly, disappeared into his own house. 

Family jars can very well seem more important, 
more tragic than they are. But this was an unusual 
quarrel. What was this mysterious occupation of 
Mr. Arthur Wilmot, the very mention of which 
had reduced him from a hectoring bully, breathing 
fire and slaughter, to a murmuring supplicant? 

He waited until the door of the Wilmot house 
closed, then he stepped down to the gravel and 



44 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


paced slowly back. As he came to the Nelson 
residence he stopped and looked, and his heart beat 
a little faster. He saw the girl distinctly. The 
moonlight gave her beautiful face a delicacy which 
was unearthly. He saw her draw back and the 
window slowly close, and knew that she had seen 
him. Was she afraid? Had she recognised him? 
It was queer, he told himself, as he drove back to 
Beverley, and queerest of all was the sudden lighten¬ 
ing of spirit and the rolling away of a sense of 
impending trouble which he experienced as his car 
turned into the main road. If there was a devil 
at Beverley Green he was a most potent devil. For 
a second he had scared Andrew Macleod. 


CHAPTER SIX 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH 

Stella Nelson was at breakfast when her father 
came down. He was no longer a haughty dismisser 
of servants, but an ashamed and humble man. His 
whole attitude was an apology. 

Once Stella used to be deceived by his penitence. 
She had argued that if a man realised and was 
truly sorry for his faults—and he had not grown 
so callous that he passed over these acts in silence 
there must be something in him and a chance of 
reformation. But that illusion had passed, with 
many others. 

“Good morning, my dear. I hardly like to look 
you in the face,” he said as he sat down and un¬ 
folded his serviette with uncertain hands. “I am 
a beast, a beast!” 

She poured out his tea unimpressed. 

“This is the last time, Stella, the very last time. 
I resolved as I was dressing this morning that never 
again would a wine-glass touch my lips. Was I 
unusually stupid? I didn’t dismiss the servants, did 
I?” 

“They’ve gone,’’ she said. 

He groaned. 

4S 


46 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Perhaps I could see them,” he said eagerly. 
“I think I could put things right with Nellie. She 
was not a bad girl, though she did lose my gold 
studs. I’ll go down and explain, and we’ll have 
them all up by lunch-time, my love. I can’t allow 
you to do the housework.” 

“Nellie came for her box this morning,” said 
the girl in a matter of fact tone, “and I made the 
same suggestion to her. She says she wouldn’t 
come back if I paid her a million a year. I didn’t 
offer it to her.” 

“Did I—did I call her names?” he asked guiltily. 

She nodded and pushed the marmalade towards 
him. 

“Have you any money? I want to go shopping,” 
she said. 

He shifted uneasily in his chair. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” he said. “I went into 
Beverley yesterday morning after you had gone and 
made one or two purchases-” 

“I know,” Stella interrupted calmly. “You 
left exactly half a bottle, which I poured down the 
sink.” 

“You shouldn’t have done that, my dear,” he 
murmured. “It is poisonous stuff, but it is good 
to have in the house in case of sudden sickness.” 

Kenneth Nelson, on such occasions as these, in¬ 
variably presupposed the outbreak of some malady 
which could only be cured by the liberal application 
of whisky. 

“If we’re sick we’ll send for Dr. Granitt,” said 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


47 

the girl briskly. “Are you sure you have no money, 
father?” 

“I have a few shillings.” He put his hand in his 
pocket and produced a handful of loose silver. “I 
shall want that,” he said hastily. “I get my cheque 
from the dealers to-day. Why it hasn’t come this 
morning I don’t know. These dealers are most un¬ 
businesslike. 

“The cheque came last week,” she said, without 
heat. “You took the letter from the maid and 
asked her not to tell me anything about it. She 
told me that yesterday, amongst other things.” 

He groaned again. 

“I’m a spendthrift, I’m a wastrel,” he wailed. 
“I drove your poor mother into her grave by my 
beastliness. You know I did, Stella.” 

In such moments of self-abnegation he found 
pleasure in exposure of his weakness. That it 
might hurt his daughter did not occur to him. He 
himself derived such complete satisfaction in his 
role of flagellant that he could not imagine she did 
not share his painful pleasure. 

“Don’t,” she said almost sharply, and returned 
instantly to the money question. “I must have 
some money, father. The maids are coming up for 
their wages to-day. Or, to be more exact, I prom¬ 
ised to send it down to them.” 

He was hunched up in his chair, an injured, 
brooding man. 

“I’ll make a start on that Pygmalion to-day,” he 
said. “It will take some while to do, and it will 


48 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


be a long time before I get the money. These in¬ 
fernal dealers—-—” 

He had started on the Pygmalion three years 
before, but had not been quite in the mood ever 
since. Stella had given up engaging models for 
him and accepted the announcement that a start 
was to be made upon the great picture with the 
same indifference as she received his penitence. 

He brightened up as a thought occurred to him 
and leant across the table, dropping his voice to a 
confidential tone. 

“I suppose, Stella, you couldn’t get- You 

remember the money you got when that wretched 
jam manufacturer sued me for the money he had 
deposited—as if I could paint a picture to order! 
I was never a tradesman, dear. I don’t sing a song 
about art, but art is the essence of existence to 
me.” 

He looked at her expectantly, pleadingly. She 
shook her head. 

“I cannot get any more money that way,” she 
said. “I’d sooner die.” She shivered at the recol¬ 
lection. “Don’t let us talk about it, father,” she 
said. 

Presently he got up and strolled disconsolately 
about the room, posing before the half-finished 
portrait of her which had been begun when she was 
three years younger. 

“There’s the makings of a picture,” he said. 
“I’ve a jolly good mind to concentrate on that.” 




THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


49 


Later, however, she found him in the studio 
examining another incomplete canvas. 

“A couple of weeks’ work on that, Stella, and, 
by gad! I’ve got an Academy picture!’’’ 

“Why don’t you make a start, father?” she asked. 
“I’ll help you fix the palette. Get into your smock 
and start.” 

“There’s tons of time,” he said airily. “I’m 
going to see if I can find a professional. One round 
would make a man of me.” 

She saw him afterwards disappearing into the 
valley, with his caddie behind him and the profes¬ 
sional walking by his side, a man without a care in 
the world, without a thought of to-morrow or a 
real regret for yesterday. 

When he came back to lunch he was so bright 
and confident, so dogmatic and optimistic, that she 
knew that his good resolution of the morning was 
already an amusing memory. 

“It is knowing where to stop, Stella, that makes 
all the difference between a man and a fool,” he 
said. “There is nobody who knows better than 
myself when he’s had enough. The trouble with 
me is that I am an artist. My mind goes wandering 
into rosy dreamlands, and I drink mechanically, 
without realising that I am drinking at all.” He 
laughed outrageously and pinched her cheek. 
“We’ll have that Pygmalion finished in a week,” 
he said. “You think that’s a stupid promise, don’t 
you ? I can tell you, my dear, that as a young man, 


50 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


when I painted the picture which made me famous 
—Homer drinking the hemlock—I began to work 
on the Sunday morning and the thing was finished 
on Tuesday night. Of course I touched it up after¬ 
wards.” 

She had heard the story innumerable times. 

“Did you drink anything at the club, father?” 

The club was a tiny bungalow at the end of the 
village, and had perhaps the smallest membership 
of any golfing club in the world. 

“Just a whisky and soda,” he said airily, and 
added something about a man knowing when he 
had had enough. 

Kenneth Nelson had the habit of repression, a 
habit to which neurotics are susceptible. He could 
put out of his mind any aspect of life and every 
memory of word or deed that was unpleasant to 
think about, or shocked his artistic soul. He 
referred to this facility as a gift; it was, in fact, a 
weakness, symptomatic of his neurosis. His speech 
abounded in wise sayings, old saws that had chrys- 
tallised into a habit of thought. His favourite, and, 
indeed, the only poetical quotation, was that stanza 
from Omar which deals with the inevitability of the 
moving finger. 

“Oh, by the way, Stella, we have a visitor at the 
guest house. Upon my word, it is poetical justice,” 
he chuckled. “That rascal Bellingham was a 
thief, a burglar. By gad! I shouldn’t have slept 
soundly if I had known that.” 

The girl wondered what there was in the house, 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


5i 

other than unfinished paintings, that might have 
tempted the errant Scottie. 

Before her father could continue she had 
an intuitive knowledge of what he was going to 
say. 

“The detective ?”' she asked quickly. 

He nodded. 

“He is staying here for a day or two—quite an 
interesting fellow, a most charming fellow. He’s 
a guest of Merrivan’s in a sense. You know how 
Merrivan picks up odd people, impossible people as 
a rule; but this time he’s picked a winner. This 
detective fellow—Andrew, Andrew, what the devil 
is it ? A Scottish name. I never can remember all 
the Macs.” 

“Macleod.” 

“Andrew Macleod, that’s it! Well, he is the 
fellow who was sent down to arrest the burglar, and 
very smart he was about it. He is quite a lion. Of 
course, it is unusual to find a detective who is a 
gentleman, except in books. You’d like to meet 
him, wouldn’t you, my dear? He would interest 
you.” 

“No,” she said, so quickly that he looked at her. 
“I’m really not interested,” she went on hurriedly, 
“and besides, I saw him in the post office yesterday 
morning and didn’t like the look of him.” 

Mr. Nelson yawned and looked at his watch. 

“Well, I’ll get along. I promised Pearson I’d 
partner him in a foursome this afternoon. You’re 
sure you won’t come up to tea?” 


52 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


She did not ask him inconvenient questions about 
the unfinished Pygmalion. Two years ago, when 
she first came back from school, she would have been 
surprised that he had so quickly forgotten his noble 
intentions, and would have suggested that he spend 
the afternoon in his studio, and he would have 
replied that he would get up early the next morning 
and make a good start. If she had repeated the 
suggestion now, she would have had the same 
answer. She was resigned now, resigned to every¬ 
thing. Things must work out as they might. She 
had made her effort and had failed. Recalling the 
journey to town and the high hopes she had set upon 
the interview which had proved impossible, she 
knew that her wild flutter to escape had been futile 
from the conception of the idea. The worst must 
happen. It was Kismet. 

When she had come down that morning she had 
found a letter from Arthur Wilmot, and, after mak¬ 
ing sure that he was the writer, she had torn it up 
unread and thrown it into the waste-paper basket. 
He was the least disturbing element of all. 

As to the detective, he also was fate. He must 
do whatever he wished, what ever it was his duty to 
do. She was resigned to the worst, and he was 
included in her category of misfortunes. To-day 
he headed the list. 

She spent the afternoon interviewing the raw 
materials of service. They were crude country 
girls, who gaped at her, and giggled at the labour- 
saving devices to which she introduced them. It 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


53 


was a waste of time to look for trained servants, for 
they knew the house, and they had heard of Kenne.th 
Nelson in his cups. 

A secret and dwindling reserve of money which 
she kept in her desk enabled her to discharge her 
liabilities to the servants whom Nelson, in his lordly 
way, had dismissed. She had just finished the 
heartbreaking task of teaching the new cook the 
delicate art of tea-making (“I likes it hot and strong 
myself, miss,’’ said that lady) when Mr. Merrivan 
arrived. She saw him through the window, and 
opened the door to him herself. 

He was an unwelcome visitor, though she did 
not dislike him. She stilled the flutter of appre¬ 
hension which she felt by committing him to the 
category of her inevitabilities, and gained a certain 
peace of mind thereby. 

“A delicate errand, Miss—er—Nelson,” he said, 
shaking his head, and thereby implying his unfitness 
for the mission. “A very delicate errand. I 
hardly know where to begin.” 

She waited, fearing that he would begin by re¬ 
minding her of a certain obligation she had once 
undertaken and happily discharged. To her relief, 
the subject which he had come to expound was the 
brutality of his nephew. 

“I don’t know what he said to you. I can only 
guess. May I sit down?” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

She pushed forward a chair, and Mr. Merrivan 
seated himself slowly and gave her elaborate thanks. 


54 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“He has insulted you beyond forgiveness,” he 
was starting, but she stopped him. 

“I do hope you’re not going to talk about that, Mr. 
Merrivan. Arthur is very young, and he doesn’t 
know a very great deal about women.” 

“Doesn’t he?” said Mr. Merrivan significantly. 
“I am sorry to say I disagree with you. He knows 
enough about ladies to understand what is his duty.” 

“Did he tell you?” she asked, wondering how 
this big man came to know. 

It occurred to her that Arthur must have in¬ 
herited his talkativeness from Mr. Merrivan’s 
branch of the family. 

“He certainly told me,” nodded the other, “and 
he asked me to use my influence with you— 
ahem!” he coughed. “I told him,” he spoke very 
distinctly and slowly, “that I certainly could not 
hope to press the suit of another.” 

There was a pause whilst she was taking this in. 

“Of another ? v she repeated. “Do you mean— 
oh, no, you cannot mean-” 

“I mean,” said Mr. Merrivan, very quietly, and, 
as before, very distinctly, “myself. The disparity 
in our ages, Miss Nelson, is apparently an insuper¬ 
able obstacle to my happiness.” 

“Age has nothing to do with it, Mr. Merrivan,” 
she said hastily, “only I—I don’t want to get 
married. You do mean that? You want to marry 
me? I hope you don’t—it would make me look 
a little foolish if you didn’t, but—I’d rather feel 
foolish.” 



THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


55 


“That is what I mean,” said Darius Merrivan 
in his stateliest manner. “I have for a long time 
contemplated such a step, Miss Nelson, and every 
day I have seen you I have become more and more 
convinced that you are the only woman in the world 
with whom life would be in any way agreeable.” 

Stella laughed. 

“Fm a little hysterical, I think,” she excused 

herself. “I never dreamt that you- Of course, 

I am very honoured, Mr. Merrivan, I cannot tell 
you how honoured, and you have been so good to 
me. 

He raised his hand in protest. 

“Do not let us speak of that matter,” he said. 
“I can offer you— 1 —” 

“Wait,” she interrupted urgently. “I don’t 
want to be married; that is the truth. I am very 
young, and I have no fixed ideas about matrimony, 
and I don’t want to be married. It isn’t because 
it is you, Mr. Merrivan, any more than it was be¬ 
cause it was Arthur. I just don’t want to be 
married!” 

She might have thought that he had expected 
some such reply, he took his refusal so calmly and 
with such a little show of chagrin. 

“The matter can wait,” he said. “I cannot 
expect a young lady to make up her mind on the 
spot, but I shall not give up hoping.” 

She shook her head. 

“I think it would be kinder to tell you not to 




56 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

hope,” said she. “I like you awfully, and you have 
been very kind to me.” 

Again his hands protested. 

“But I don’t want to marry you, Mr. Merrivan, 
any more than I want to marry your nephew, and 
I don’t think any time you may allow me to recon¬ 
sider the matter will cause me to change my views. 
They are fixed and immutable.” 

Still he did not make any attempt to rise, but 
sat there feeling his smooth cheek and staring past 
her, until she began to wonder what there was to 
attract his gaze. 

“Are things well with you, Miss Nelson?” 

“Very well indeed,” she answered brightly. 

“You are not troubled at all?” 

She shook her head. 

“Another delicate matter,” he said. “I am a 
very rich man and have no relatives and few calls 
upon my purse. If a matter of two thousand 
would be of any use to you, to tide over these hard 
times, you may command me.” 

“No, Mr. Merrivan,” she answered quietly, “it 
is big and generous of you. I have once trespassed 
upon your kindness, but—it wasn’t a nice experi¬ 
ence. Oh yes, you were very sweet about it, but 
I can’t accept anything more.” 

He got up to his feet, flicked a speck of dust from 
his sleeve, and picked up his* hat. 

“Arthur knows,” he said. “I told him.” 

“Told him what?” she demanded, startled. 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH 


57 


“That I was going to ask you to marry me.”’ 

He laughed softly. 

“He was very violent, Miss Nelson, and threatened 
—I think he threatened to kill me.” He turned 
at the door. “By the way, did he say anything 
to you about knowing your secret?” 

“Did he tell you that too?” 

He shook his head. 

“No, I guessed that. The secret he knew was 
that you had borrowed money from me, and how 
he came to know is beyond my understanding. 
Perhaps I can induce you to change your mind?” 

She shook her head. 

He was standing in the doorway, his hand on the 
handle, looking out into the garden. 

“When is the twenty-fourth of the month?” he 
asked, not turning his head. 

A very considerable space of time elapsed before 
she replied. 

“Next Monday,” she breathed, and stood motion¬ 
less as he closed the door behind him. 

So he knew. He really did know. And the 
detective was here, for what other purpose than 
to serve Mr. Merrivan in his discretion? 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


MEETING STELLA 

Andy spent two unprofitable days at Beverley 
Green—unprofitable because the person he had come 
to meet had studiously avoided him. Once he 
saw a girl walking on the other side of the green. 
She was accompanied by two dogs, which ran 
erratically before and behind, and occasionally 
around her, and, quickening his steps, found that 
it was a Miss Sheppard, a girl to whom he had been 
introduced on the links. 

He dined the first night with Mr. Merrivan and 
Sheppard, the architect, a man of such elusive 
personality that therefore Andrew could never form 
a mental picture of him. Mr. Merrivan was a 
bachelor, he told them; not an incorrigible one by 
any means. He was open to conviction, and, if he 
dare talk about himself, though he was sure nobody 
was particularly interested, he had been convinced. 

“Indeed?” said his guests, variously impressed. 

Andy wondered what kind of woman his host 
would marry. Mr. Sheppard did not speculate. He 
gave the impression that he had stopped thinking 
when he had made sufficient money to retire from 
his profession. 

58 


MEETING STELLA 


59 


Andy recalled the great architect as a round-faced 
man, but was uncertain whether he had a moustache 
or was clean-shaven. 

He wore a large gold stud, flat, and resembling 
a button. It had a small black stone in the centre. 
It was the only hint of his personality that Andy 
could ever recollect. 

“The fact is, gentlemen,” said Mr. Merrivan, 
lowering his voice as if he were revealing a great 
secret, “beautiful as this place is, and charming as 
the community is and always will be, I am sure, I 
have planned an existence even more—ah—serene. 
Do you know Lake Como, Dr. Macleod?” 

Andy knew it rather well. 

“I have purchased a villa—the Villa Frescoli— 
a little place where I hope to find even greater 
happiness than has been my lot at Beverley.” 

Andy was thoughtful. The Villa Frescoli, so far 
from being a little place, was a palace, and Mr. 
Merrivan was not the kind of man who would boast; 
a big white marble palace, he remembered, because 
the title of villa had seemed so inadequate to him 
when it had been pointed out. 

There was a woman in the party that day on the 
lake, a woman with a practical housekeeping mind. 

“They call it a villa,” she said, “but it would 
require a staff of a hundred servants to run it.” 

She had been over the place, which had been 
built for a Russian Grand Duke. 

Mr. Merrivan assumed a new interest in Andy 
Macleod’s eyes. He had spent the evening wonder- 


6 o 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


ing whether the Nelson’s would drop in after dinner, 
for such was the practice amongst members of the 
“community.” But life ran much more conven¬ 
tionally than he had supposed, and, really, there 
had been no reason why he should expect it to run 
otherwise. Neighbours did not call on one another. 
Beverley Green kept itself to itself. 

Mr. Sheppard left early, and, at the invitation of 
his host, Andy took his coffee into what Mr. Mer- 
rivan called his “den.” 

He found himself in the room where Merrivan 
and Wilmot had been when he had overheard their 
conversation on the previous night. In some 
respects it was a remarkable apartment. It was 
long, and also appeared narrower than it was. It ran 
from the front to the back of the house, and 
was lighted from both ends by two tall windows. 
In the very centre was a big carved fireplace, which 
would have been more in keeping with a baronial 
hall, and it was probably due to this feature that the 
room seemed out of proportion and the ceiling un¬ 
usually low. 

Oak panelling covered the walls, and the first 
thing Andy noticed was the absence of books. 
Evidently Mr. Merrivan was not a literary man and 
made no attempt to deceive a casual caller into 
believing that he was. The pictures on the wall 
were mostly etchings, and very valuable. Andy 
noticed some priceless examples of Zohn’s works, 
and Mr. Merrivan pointed out to him, with justifi¬ 
able pride, a cartoon of Leonardo da Vinci. 


MEETING STELLA 


61 


For the fireplace he apologised. He had bought 
it from the executors of Stockley Castle. The coats 
of arms of the Stockleys appeared on the entablature. 
The furniture was good and modern—two deep 
settees fitted into the window recesses, and beside 
Mr. Merrivan’s desk, which was in that portion of 
the room at the front of the house, there was a long 
table at the other end, a beautifully carved cabinet 
of Eastern origin, and a sprinkling of most com¬ 
fortable arm-chairs. 

“I am a simple person with simple tastes,” said 
Mr. Merrivan complacently. “My nephew thinks 
that the apartment is more like an office. Well, I 
have been very comfortable in offices. You smoke, 
doctor ?” 

Andy selected a cigar from the silver case that 
was pushed towards him. 

“Do you find our community restful?” 

Andy smiled. 

“It is a delightful backwater,” he said, and Mr. 
Merrivan purred. 

“I take a great deal of credit upon myself for 
its creation,” he said. “I acquired these houses one 
by one. Some of them are very old, though you* 
may not think so, and it was I who laid out Beverley 
Green as you now see it. I sold every house and 
made not a penny profit, sir, not a penny,” he shook 
his head. 

Andy was surprised. 

“That was unbusinesslike of you.” 

“Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Merrivan, shaking 


62 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


his head. “The idea is to get the right kind of 
people here. I am afraid they are not quite the 
right kind. People are not all they seem, and char¬ 
acter deteriorates. But in contrast to your own 
active life, doctor, Beverley Green must be very 
restful/’ 

They passed on to a discussion of crime and 
criminals, a discussion which, in the main, took the 
form of questions on the part of Mr. Merrivan and 
answers, long and short, according to the interest 
he had in the particular object of Mr. Merrivan’s 
research, from Andy. 

“Have you ever met in your travels,” Mr. Mer¬ 
rivan hesitated, “a man named Abraham Selim?” 

“Somebody else was asking me that very ques¬ 
tion,” said Andy. “Now who was it? Anyway, 
I have not met him, Mr. Merrivan. He is rather a 
bad egg, isn’t he?’’ 

“He is a usurer, and, as I have every reason to 
believe, a blackmailer,” said Mr. Merrivan soberly. 
“Happily I have not been in his clutches, although 
other people—can you remember who spoke about 
him? It was not Nelson, by any chance?” 

“No, it was not Nelson,” said Andy. “I think 
it was Mr. Boyd Salter who asked me whether I had 
met him.” 

“Our feudal lord,” said Merrivan humorously. 
“A very nice man, Mr. Boyd Salter. Do you know 
him very well? I was not aware that you had met 
him when I was speaking to you the other day.” 

“I met him the same afternoon,” said Andy. 


MEETING STELLA 63 

“I had to get his signature as Justice of the Peace 
before I could remove my prisoner.” 

“A charming fellow; we see too little of him/’ 
said Merrivan. “He is a nervous wreck in these 
days, I am told.” 

Andy remembered the soft-footed servant and 
the silence of the house and smiled. He left soon 
after. Mr. Merrivan would have accompanied him 
to the guest house, but this Andy declined. He 
was anxious to be alone; he wanted to make the 
journey at his leisure. The Nelson house could only 
be seen from one part of the green. 

“I seem to spend my time listening at people’s 
doors,” thought Andy. He was standing opposite 
the gate, a very amazed man, for from within there 
reached him the sound of a man’s violent raving. 
Suddenly the door was flung open and two women 
came flying out, blubbering in their rage. Behind 
them, with long strides, came Nelson. He was 
dressed in his shirt and trousers and slippers. Andy 
guessed he was drunk, but although he had seen 
many drunken men he had never met one who 
walked so steadily as he followed the women out¬ 
side the gate, or whose voice and enunciation were 
so clear. 

“Don’t ever let me see you again, you-” He 

broke into a volley of vilest abuse. - 

“Father!” The girl was at his side and had 
slipped her arm into his. “I think you had better 
come back.” 

“I will not come back. I will do as I wish. 



6 4 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Stella, go to your room!”' He pointed dramatically. 
“Am I to be talked to by these sluts, these scour- 
ings of the gutter, I, Kenneth Nelson, an Associate 
of the Royal Academy? I'll not stand it!” 

“Will you please come into the house, father, or 
are you anxious to let Beverley Green-” 

“Damn Beverley Green! I am superior to 
Beverley Green! A lot of retired jam manu¬ 
facturers! Go to your room, Stella.” But she did 
not move, and then Andy thought it was a pro¬ 
pitious moment to make his influence felt. 

“Ah, Mr. Macleod.” Nelson was geniality itself. 

“Good evening, Mr. Nelson. I wanted a little 
talk with you.” 

He took the arm of the man and led him un¬ 
resistingly into the house, and the girl followed. 

She was grateful, but she was frightened, curious 
to know more of him, to see him at closer quarters, 
and humiliated by the circumstances under which 
they met. First she recognised—and herein her 
gratitude was founded—the strength of him. He 
was one who had handled men before. She sensed 
something of his magnetism, and perhaps gave him 
greater credit for the docility of her father than he 
was entitled to. 

“I have just dismissed two impertinent members 
of the lower classes—two infernal domestic servants, 
Mr. Macleod,” said Nelson, with a return of his old 
hauteur. “The lower order are becoming more and 
more unbearable. My dear,” he looked reprovingly 
at his daughter, “I cannot congratulate you on your 



MEETING STELLA 


65 


selection. I really cannot. Now get Mr. Macleod 
something to drink, and I will have just a little tot 
to keep him company/’ 

“Then we’ll have a tot of water, Mr. Nelson,” 
said Andy smiling. 

“Water!” Kenneth Nelson did not attempt to 
disguise his contempt for the suggestion. “Whilst 
I have a house and a cellar, my dear friend, no guest 
goes away from here without a beaker of the good 
yellow wine of Scotland. Ha, ha!” 

Andy had expected to find the girl distressed, 
and was shocked to note her self-possession, shocked 
because her very poise in this crisis was eloquent 
of great experience. These outbreaks of Nelson 
must be of frequent occurrence, he thought, and 
she seemed so young, such a child. He had once 
read in a novel of a heroine that she was flower-like, 
and had dismissed this description as a piece of 
extravagance on the part of the writer. And yet 
the description fitted her. The petal purity of her 
colouring, the stem straightness of her figure— 
it wasn’t these things, though they were there, 
that he admired. She was a bud, half-revealing the 
splendour of the flower, and yet wholly satisfying 
in her immaturity. He had seen her kind in the 
higher forms at girls’ schools—something between 
girl and child—so exactly satisfying as they were 
that you grudged their improvement. 

She made no attempt to go in search of the 
whisky. She knew there was none in the house. 

“The cellar is empty, father,” she said drily. 


66 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


‘There has been a strike amongst the wine miners.” 

Ridicule infuriated him, and he swung round on 
her, but something brought his eyes to Andy. They 
dominated and held him. 

“May I see your father alone for a few minutes, 
Miss Nelson?” he said. “There is something I 
want to speak to him about.” 

She nodded and disappeared. 

“My dear fellow,” murmured Nelson in weak 
protest. 

“You called me Mr. Macleod just now. You 
have forgotten that I am a doctor. Have you seen 
a doctor lately?” 

“No, I haven’t. My health is perfect, perfect,” 
said the other defiantly. 

“So far from being perfect,” said Andy, “you 
are on the verge of a complete breakdown, from 
which you may never wholly recover. I can tell 
you, without troubling to examine your heart, that 
you have an aneurism. That made you jump, 
because you know it is true. I have watched you at 
golf, and I know. Mr. Nelson, you will not live 
for another year unless you stop drinking.” 

Nelson blinked. 

“You’re trying to frighten me,” he said. “I 
know I’m a fool, but I’m not such a fool as you 
think. I’ve got a lot of trouble on my mind, Mr.— 
Dr. Macleod.” 

“You can get rid of the greatest by cutting out 
whisky—though I hate to say anything that will 
reduce the manufacturing output of my native 


MEETING STELLA 67 

land. Will you let me come over and see you 
to-morrow? Who is your doctor?” 

“Granitt of Beverley. I have never had him for 
myself. He attended my poor wife.” 

“Well, I’ll examine you and he can treat you. 
We’ll have a second examination. Til call in 
Granitt. Probably he’ll want to run the rule over 
you himself, but that isn’t going to hurt you very 
much.” 

“I don’t know why-” began Nelson in his old 

haughty way, but Andrew overrode his objections. 

“I don’t want to alarm your daughter,” he said, 
lowering his voice, “so we will not discuss it any 
further.” 

When the girl returned she found her father 
almost lamb-like in his mildness. Kenneth Nelson 
was terribly afraid, for he had had a shock from 
which he was not likely to recover in a hurry. 

“I think I’ll go to bed, Stella,” he said. “I am 
a bit run down. I haven’t been feeling so well 
lately.” 

Andrew was amused, but he did not smile. He 
walked with the girl to the gate, waiting on the 
step whilst she put on a little scarf—a black scarf, 
he noticed idly. There was a little red monogram 
in the corner. Everything about her was interesting 
to him. He told her as they walked down the 
path something of the conversation he had had 
with her father. 

“I don’t for one moment suppose he has an 
aneurism, but I’ll see Granitt. I think I know his 



68 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


son rather well—he was at Guy’s with me—and 
we can fix up something peculiarly complicated 
that will keep him away from drink for a very 
long while.” 

“I hope so,” she said dubiously. 

“You have lost faith, haven’t you?” 

She nodded. 

“A little. One gets that way.” 

“I’ll tell you something,” he said. “There 
are taxi-cabs on the streets run by a man named 
Stadmere. The Stadmere cabs are by far the most 
luxurious of any. I have trained myself, when I 
have not been in a very great hurry, to wait for a 
Stadmere. It is generally a long time coming. 
Sometimes you can get one almost at once. But it 
is remarkable, if you make up your mind that you 
will take nothing but a Stadmere, how quickly it 
comes.” 

“That is a parable,’^ she smiled. “But I am 
wanting something that is even more rare than a 
Stadmere; I am wanting a miracle.” 

He did not say anything to this, and she was 
regretting that she had said so much to a stranger 
when he turned, holding the wicket gate with his 
hands. 

“I have even seen miracles happen,” he said. 
“They're worth waiting for, too, but I suppose 
when you’re very young, very impatient, days pass 
so very quickly, and years are such enormous gulfs 
of time, that you grow tired of waiting.” 


MEETING STELLA 69 

“You talk like an old gentleman.” She smiled 
in spite of herself. 

“A very old gentleman, with long white whiskers, 
eh?” he said good-humouredly. “Old enough to be 
impatient sometimes. But still I can wait!” 

He held her hand in his for a moment, and she 
watched him crossing the green until she saw his 
blurred figure enter the door of the guest house. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


THE DEATH SHOT 

The days went on. Andy extended his stay for 
another week. He consulted Dr. Granitt, and that 
physician had called upon Nelson, and though he 
had not discovered the alarming aneurism, he left 
his patient impressed with the number and character 
of maladies from which he was suffering. 

Andy did not see the girl again, save at a distance. 
His holiday was approaching its end, and he really 
must put in a week at fishing. His room at the 
guest house was a comfortable one, the golf course 
was excellent, and there was really no reason why 
he should fish at all. 

On Sunday he went to church. He went some¬ 
what hurriedly, for he was in his pyjamas reading 
when he saw Stella Nelson pass with a prayer-book 
in her hand. He was in church ten minutes after 
she entered, and secured a pew which gave him 
view of her profile. She recognsied him out¬ 
side, and they walked back to Beverley Green to¬ 
gether. 

“It was rather an interesting sermon, don’t 
you think, Dr. Macleod?” 

“Very,” he agreed, and tactfully changed the 
70 


THE DEATH SHOT 


7 1 


subject. He knew there had been a sermon, because 
he had seen an old man curled up in one corner of 
the pew fast asleep. But what it was about he 
had not the slightest idea. 

“I hear you are going away to-morrow,” she 
said. 

“I had intended going to-morrow,” he said, 
“but probably I shall stay a few more days, unless 
they turn me out of the guest house.” 

She shook her head. 

“Nobody is turned out of the guest house,” she 
said. “Except by the police,” she added a little 
maliciously, and he chuckled. 

As they strolled up the road a man was coming 
to meet them. Unexpectedly he turned off and 
disappeared down a side-street. 

“Sweeny looks as if he didn’t want to meet 
me,” said the girl with a smile. 

“I was thinking the same myself. Who is 
Sweeny ?” 

“He used to be Mr. Merrivan’s butler, but I 
rather think he left under a cloud. He hates Mr. 
Merrivan.” 

She was puzzled. She did not credit Sweeny with 
such a sense of delicacy that he avoided her in order 
to save her an embarrassing reminder of their last 
meeting. The explanation of his visit came from 
Mr. Merrivan himself. That genial gentleman came 
up to them as they were standing by the gate of 
the house. 

“Good morning, Miss Nelson,” he said cheerfully. 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


72 

“You didn’t meet that rascally Sweeny, did you?” 

“I thought it was he,” she said. 

“The scoundrel!” Mr. Merrivan shook his large 
fist. “He has the audacity to show his nose in 
Beverley Green again. I caught the fellow spying 
round my house—or, at least, my gardener did. 
If I had been at church, as is my usual practice, I 
should probably never have heard of his appearance. 
All these servants hang together.” 

What was there especially heinous in over¬ 
looking Mr. Merrivan’s private grounds, Andy 
wondered, when he explained to him that Sweeny 
had done no more than wormed his way through a 
hedge, at which point he was discovered by the 
vigilant gardener. Probably the vigilant gardener 
would have said nothing, only Mr. Merrivan hap¬ 
pened to be pottering about—he was the sort of man 
who pottered—and had heard the sound of voices. 

Nothing remarkable happened that day, and the 
machinery of fate, which in its working was to make 
Beverley Green world-notorious, did not begin 
grinding until the moon came up over the hills. 

Stella was reading in the hall. She had just 
been up to see her father and make him comfortable 
for the night, since Mr. Nelson had taken the medical 
advice very seriously and had not left his room since 
Andy’s warning. 

She was turning over the page when she heard a 
stealthy “Tap, tap” at the window. She waited a 
moment, thinking she must have been mistaken 
or that it was a dripping faucet in the kitchen she 


THE DEATH SHOT 


73 


had heard. It came again “Tap, tap, tap,” and 
she put down the book and got up. She was not 
nervous. Arthur Wilmot, in the old days, used to 
attract her attention that way when he wanted her 
to come out and walk round the green. 

She pulled aside the curtain and looked into the 
garden, but saw nothing. Heavy clouds had been 
rolbng up all the afternoon from the south-west, 
and the moon was obscured. She walked to the 
front door, and her hand was on the knob to open 
it when she saw a letter at her feet. It had been 
pushed un der the door. It was unaddressed, and 
after a moment’s hesitation she tore it open. It 
was a long letter; four pages were covered with 
close writing. At first she thought it was from 
Arthur. She had had several letters from him, and 
they had all gone the way of the first. 

She turned to the signature, puzzled over it a 
little while, then began to read. The further she 
read, the colder grew her heart, and tighter seemed 
that restricted band about it, until she could hardly 
breathe. She went out into the kitchen and drew 
herself a glass of water, and, clutching the letter in 
her hand, she read it again, and every line was a 
knife-thrust. Presently she found what she was 
seeking—a small colt revolver which belonged to 
her father, and which she had locked away in the old 
days, when his drunken threats meant more to her 
than they did to-day. She found also a little green 
box, packed tight with cartridges. With a duster 
she cleaned the pistol, opened it calmly, put in three 


74 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


cartridges, and reclosed the breech. Then she went 
up to her room, found a dark overcoat, put it on, 
and slipped the pistol into her pocket. 

Back in the hall she wished she had not burnt 
the letter; she wanted to make absolutely sure. 
She could find out, she told herself. She was cool 
and unshaken. The hand that turned the switch, 
plunging the room into darkness, did not shake. 
She slipped on her scarf and made sure that she had 
the key in her pocket before she closed the door 
gently. 

At the garden gate she stopped to look over to 
the guest house. What a strength was there! 
For one wild moment she was tempted to lay her 
burden of agony upon his broad shoulders—for one 
moment. Then the absurdity of it struck her. 
Call a police officer! So she went on, a figure of 
doom, and her heart was as black as the room she 
had left, for the light of hope had gone out. 

Andy Macleod had changed his mint! for the 
third time that day. He would go to-morrow, he 
told himself; he was just being a stupid, sentimental 
fool, and that is a confession which does not sound 
nice to a man of thirty-five. 

He walked over to the house, and, seeing the 
rooms black, he came back to his own apartment 
and tried to read. He put the book down after an 
unsuccessful attempt, undressed, and went to bed. 
He had a good conscience and a good digestion, and, 
though he told himself he was going to have a rest¬ 
less night, he was asleep within five minutes. 


THE DEATH SHOT 


75 

A rattling at the bedroom door awoke him 
instantly. 

“Who is that?” 

“Johnston the manager, sir. Can I see you ? It 
is very urgent.” 

Andy Macleod put on the light. The watch at 
his bedside marked the hour of a quarter to two. 
What had happened? He guessed that a telephone 
message had come through from headquarters 
requiring his presence in connection with Scottie’s 
arrest, and he cursed that man unjustly. 

His first glance at the manager’s face told him 
that the trouble was nearer at hand. Johnston’s 
face was grey and his lips were trembling. 

“Oh, sir,” he gasped, “such a terrible thing has 
happened. Mr. Pearson told me to go and fetch 
you at once before I went to the police.” 

“What is the matter?” asked Andyquickly. 

“Mr. Merrivan, sir, Mr. Merrivan,” whimpered 
the man. 

“What has happened?” 

“Dead, sir, murdered, sir. Oh, it is dreadful!” 

“Merrivan—murdered! Just wait a moment. 
I’ll be down in few minutes. Make me a cup of 
tea if you can.” 

He dressed rapidly, swallowed the tea that the 
manager handed him (how the cup shivered and 
rattled in his hands!). Somebody else had notified 
the local authorities. A sergeant of police opened 
the door of Mr. Merrivan’s house to his knock. 

“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” he said. “This 


76 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


is a pretty bad business. I’ve had every man of 
the police force roused and I’ve notified all stations 
on the road. ” 

“Is he dead?” 

“Oh yes, sir, he’s quite dead. He must have 
been dead an hour. I’ve sent for Dr. Granitt.” 

Andy nodded. 

“Where is he?” 

“There,” said the sergeant, “in his ‘den,’ as 
he used to call it.” 

Andy opened the door and walked into the long 
room. All the lights had been switched on, and he 
turned automatically to the right where Merrivan’s 
desk was to be found, but he was not there. He 
lay at the other end of the room, his feet towards 
the window, his hands upraised, as though to ward 
off an attacker, and a fearful grin upon his face. 
He had been shot at close quarters, for there was a 
blackening of powder upon his white waistcoat. 

There was no necessity to carry out a medical 
examination; one glance at the still figure told 
its story. 


CHAPTER NINE 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 

He came into the hall. 

“Where are the servants?” he asked. 

“The butler is pacifying the women, sir.” 

“Send for him,” said Andy shortly. 

The butler had heard nothing. His master had 
sent the servants to bed early. He had said that 
he would put out the lights and lock up. He often 
did this, so the butler did not see anything unusual 
in the order. 

“Has he had any visitors this evening?” 

The man hesitated. 

“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I heard voices 
once. I came down for a candle, and I thought I 
heard him talking.” 

“To whom?” 

“Well, sir,” hesitated the man, “as far as I 
could judge, it was to a lady. ” 

“Did you recognise her voice?” 

“No, sir.” 

“ What time was this? ” 

“Between half-past ten and eleven.” 

“Did you hear no shot?” 

77 


78 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“No, sir. Something woke me up; it may have 
been that. Cook says she heard a sound like a 
door creaking loudly. She came and woke me 
up. She didn’t wake me up immediately she’d 
heard the sound, but lay shivering in bed thinking 
it was burglars. Then she got up and knocked at 
Mr. Merrivan’s door, and, as he didn’t answer, she 
came to me. That’s how I discovered Mr. Merri- 
van, sir.” 

“When you went into the room were the windows 
open or closed?” 

“They were closed, sir.” 

“Is there any other way out beside the front 
door ?” 

“Yes, sir. There’s a way out through the kitchen 
and there’s another way out along the rosery path 
which Mr. Merrivan uses himself.” 

The doors leading to both these exits were barred 
and bolted, and Andy returned to the room where 
the murder had been committed. He noticed 
something peculiar about the carved Chinese 
cabinet. The door did not seem to fit, and, pulling 
it open, it came away in his hand. Then he under¬ 
stood the utility of the cabinet. Inside was a 
steel safe, which was also open. A bunch of keys 
dangled from the lock. He pulled open this door, 
to discover that the safe was empty. Then in the 
fireplace he saw a heap of burnt papers. Part of 
the heap was still smouldering red, and carefully 
he extracted such unburnt scraps as remained. He 
rescued a little leather-covered diary which had 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 79 


only been partly consumed, and this he placed 
carefully on a piece of paper. 

“Nobody is to touch those ashes, you understand, 
sergeant ?” 

“I understand, sir.” 

Andy examined the windows. Those in the 
front of the house were secured and had not been 
tampered with. He tried the windows at the 
rear, and, as he had expected, one of them was 
unfastened. 

“Excuse me, sir,’* said the sergeant. “Did you 
see the letter?” 

“The letter?” said Andy. “No, where?' ’ 

“The butler found it on the floor by the desk. 
He tells me he picked it up and put it under a heap 
of papers on the desk. He has just remembered 
that. He said he thought it was a letter Mr. 
Merrivan had been reading just before he was 
killed.” 

Andy searched the desk and drew forth from 
beneath a heap of accounts and unanswered letters a 
sheet of yellow notepaper. The caleigraphy was 
cramped and ojf that style which is known as back¬ 
hand, and is usually used by people who seek to 
disguise their handwriting. 

The first words arrested Andy’s attention. He 
sat down in the swing chair. The letter ran: 

“I have given you a chance. You have failed me. 
You must bear the consequence. If in twenty-four 
hours you do not agree to carry out your promise, look 
out! This is final. I have been patient too long.” 


8 o 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


It was signed “A. S.” “A. S.” He looked up at 
the ceiling. “A. S.” Abraham Selim! There was 
a postscript. 

“A trusted friend of mine will put this under your 
door. ” 

Andy folded up the letter and put it into his 
pocket-book as Dr. Granitt came in. 

“Well?” 

“Very bad,” said the old doctor, shaking his head. 
“Oh, yes, he’s dead all right; been dead for an hour, 
I should think. Just lift his head, Dr. Macleod. 
Yes, there’s the wound. The thoracic aorta is 
severed and the fourth dorsal vertebra smashed by 
the same bullet. You may say he has been killed 
twice. Bad, very bad.” 

“Do you notice anything peculiar about him, 
Dr. Granitt?” 

“No,” said the other, looking down with a 
professional eye at the dead man. 

“Look at his boots.” 

The old man obeyed, and raised his eyebrows. 

“Good lord, he’s got a pair of labourer’s boots 
on!” 

They were thick, unshapely articles, the kind that 
agricultural labourers wear, and they were yellow 
with dried mud. The doctor looked and shook 
his head. 

“You won’t want me any more, Macleod?” 

“No, I don’t even think we shall want you at 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 81 


the coroner’s enquiry unless they wish to call 
corroborative evidence.” 

“Thank heaven for that,” said the doctor. He 
had all the general practitioner’s horror of court 
proceedings, with their time-wasting protractions. 

“I’m frightfully busy just now. Hardly a night 
I’m not called up by anguished husbands*—a very 
prolific people, the people of Beverley.” 

Andy saw him out of the house and went back 
to the death-chamber to conduct a more thorough 
examination. He worked away from the body, and 
began with the window through which the murderer 
must have come. Here he had a complete confirma¬ 
tion of his theory. There were three dusty foot¬ 
prints on the settee, which was covered in black 
poplin and showed the print of shoes, two lefts and a 
right. They were very, very small, no bigger than 
a woman’s, though the heel was broader. They 
might have been the marks of a woman’s house- 
shoes—the butler had heard a woman’s voice. The 
window was unbolted and moved up easily and 
noiselessly. He found nothing until he came to the 
writing table. It was a broad pedestal desk in 
black oak. It look'ed an antique; a man like 
Merrivan would hardly have imitation Jacobean 
furniture. 

There were two drawers on either side, and one 
of these—the lower and the nearest to the window 
—was open. It looked as though it had been 
opened by Merrivan as he sat in the swing chair. 
Andy pulled it out still further, and the glitter of 


82 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


gold caught his eye. It was a woman’s dress ring'— 
a thin hoop of gold with five small emeralds set at 
intervals. 

He frowned. He had seen that ring before. 
Where? He knew, but he fought off an admission 
that he knew. It was Stella Nelson’s ring. He had 
seen it on her engagement finger in the post office, 
and had felt a momentary pang of disappointment, 
the pang that all men feel when they see a pretty 
woman is not for them. 

He stared at the little hoop in the centre of his 
palm, turned it over, and put it into his pocket 
closing the drawer. 

Now he began to search about the desk and 
underneath. 

Again he was rewarded. He picked up a tiny 
box, leather-covered. It was a jeweller’s ring case, 
and it was empty. He did not trouble to fit the 
ring to the slot in the white velvet. A ring of any 
size would fit. There was a step in the passage, and 
he slipped the case into his jacket pocket. 

The new-comer was the local inspector, an 
important man, very naturally anxious to extract 
whatever kudos was to be had from the conduct 
of the case. 

He said it was a '‘very bad business.” It was 
curious how people always said that on these 
occasions. 

“I’ll take over charge here, Mr.—um—Macleod,” 
he said. 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 83 

“Certainly,” agreed Andy, “but you must def¬ 
initely instruct me in writing not to conduct any 
further investigation.” 

At this the inspector hesitated. 

“I daresay we can work together, Mr. Macleod. 
Eve got on the ’phone to the chief constable and 
he told me to notify headquarters.” 

“We’ll work together if I am in charge,” said 
Andy. “You shall have all the credit that is going, 
inspector. Leave me to find the murderer.” 

“I don’t want any credit. But I’m sure you’ll 
see me right, Mr. Macleod. What do you want me 
to do?” 

Andv gave his instructions and in half an hour 
the body was removed. Later the inspector came 
to him with information. 

“Mr. Pearson heard the shot; it woke him up, 
he said. He came over just as the butler made the 
discovery. The shot came from the orchard at the 
back of Merrivan’s house.” 

Andy listened incredulously. 

“From the orchard? Impossible. He was shot 
at close range. The waistcoat is scorched and 
blackened.” 

“But one -of the maids heard it, too—the 
hysterical one. We’ve got her calm now, and she 
swears she heard the shot. The window of her 
room overlooks the orchard. She was awake, too; 
the knocking on the butler’s door had awakened 
her.” 


84 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“But the butler didn’t hear it ?” 

“He was on his way downstairs by then,” 
explained the officer. 

Andy scratched his nose irritably. 

“Merrivan was dead by then and the safe rifled. 
It must have taken at least four minutes to find 
the keys, open the safe—no, that is impossible. 
The butler must have made a noise of some kind— 
knocked a chair over probably.” 

“But Mr. Pearson wouldn’t have heard that.” 

Andrew was silent. 

“Neither would he,” he confessed. 

It was getting light now, and he passed out 
through the kitchen into the garden. It was very 
still and solemn, and the fresh morning air tasted 
indescribably sweet. 

The orchard lay beyond the truck garden. You 
followed a cinder path through a wooden gate and 
came to row upon row of fruit trees, the lime- 
washed trunks showing whitely in the dawn light. 

Before this the path frayed to an end in coarse 
grass. 

Andy peered left and right, but saw nothing 
until he had passed the first line of trees, and even 
then, so much a part of the shadows was it that he 
did not see the huddled figure by the tree-trunk for 
some time. He was dead, shot square through the 
heart. 

Andy went back to the house and summoned the 
inspector. 

“There is a second body in the garden,” he said, 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 85 

“and, if my eyesight is not at fault, he should be an 
old acquaintance of yours.” 

The police officer accompanied him to where the 
dead man lay. 

“I know him, a man named Sweeny,” he said. 
“He was in Mr. Merrivan’s service and was dis¬ 
charged for stealing. So he was the murderer; 
first shot Mr. Merrivan and then came out here and 
shot himself!” 

“Where is the revolver?” asked Andy quietly. 

The inspector searched the ground about, but 
without success. The grass was quite short and 
had been grazed over (Andy afterwards found that 
sheep had been admitted to the orchard that week), 
and there was no possible hiding-place for the 
weapon. 

“There has been a struggle here,” said Andy of 
a sudden. “Look at the turf! Three scars where 
the heel of somebody’s boot has tried to get a foot¬ 
hold, and- Go and bring the butler, inspector, 

will you please.” 

Andy waited until he was out of sight, then 
walked quickly to the next tree and picked up some¬ 
thing from the ground. It was a black silk scarf— 
the scarf that Stella Nelson had worn when she came 
to the gate two nights before. 

There was no doubt whatever. In one corner was 
a monogram worked in red silk, “S. N.” The scarf 
was torn slightly. He smelt it. He was aware that 
she used a perfume, an elusive scent; as delicate a 
fragrance as he remembered. Yes, it was Stella 



86 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Nelson’s scarf beyond any doubt. He rolled it up 
into as small a compass as possible and pushed it 
into his hip pocket, realising ruefully that he was 
loaded up with clues, and every clue pointed to this 
girl as the murderer. 

Yet in his heart he had no doubt. It was not her 
beauty or her youth that convinced him of the 
impossibility of Stella being a murderess. It was 
something within him. Perhaps, like Scottie, he 
was fey. He was smiling at the thought when it 
came to him that he no longer felt the oppression 
that had irritated him all the time he had been in 
the valley. Perhaps it was the daylight. No, he 
had felt that lurking shape when the sun was shining 
its brightest. 

The inspector came back, and for appearance 
sake, to justify his sending the officer away, he had 
to submit the agitated servant to the ordeal of 
identifying the dead man. 

“Yes, sir, that was the man that Mr. Merrivan 
found in the grounds this morning—yesterday 
morning, sir.” 

“Of course!” Andy had forgotten the incident. 
This man Sweeny hated Merrivan. Probably he 
had some reason outside his natural dislike for an 
employer who had detected him in the act of theft. 

Back in the house he gave his final instructions. 

“Nobody is to be admitted. No information is 
to be given to the reporters beyond the bare fact 
that Mr. Merrivan was murdered some time between 
midnight and one o’clock this morning. The posi- 


THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 87 

tion of the body can be shown diagrammatically; 
nobody must enter the room. Motive—robbery. 
The man in the orchard—let them try to explain 
him their own way.” 

He was half way down the garden path when 
Arthur Wilmot dashed in at the gate. He had 
dressed hurriedly—his pyjama jacket showed under 
the lightly buttoned coat—and he was very pale. 

“Mr. Macleod, is it true—my poor uncle—— 
Good God, it can’t be!” 

“I’m glad I’ve seen you,” said Andy slowly. 
“Yes, I’m afraid it is true. Your uncle has been 
killed—shot.” 

“Murdered?” 

He whispered the word fearfully. Andy nodded. 

“But—he has no enemies-” 

“Few people are murdered from enmity.” said 
Andy. “The only man who has threatened Mr. 
Merrivan’s life recently is you.” 

Wilmot staggered back as if he had been struck. 

“I ?” he stammered. “I’ve never-—did he 
say-?” 

“He was dead when he was found,” answered 
Andy, “and he has not said anything to me about 
the matter at any time. Now, Mr. Wjlmot, don’t 
answer in a hurry, and don’t answer at all if you’d 
rather not. Had you a quarrel with Darius 
Merrivan ?” 

The young man was shocked to speechlessness. 
He could only wag his head impotently and stare 
horrified at the inquisitor. 





88 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“I'll tell you this much, that, standing outside 
this house a week ago, I heard you say, T will kill 
you first.’ ” 

Wilmot recovered his voice. 

“Somebody has been telling lies about me.” His 
voice rose to a shout. “And I can tell you a 
few truths about somebody. I quarrelled with him 
—yes, I did! Over a girl who isn’t worth a packet 
of pins. Now you know. He talked about marry¬ 
ing her—and he’s married already. He didn’t 
know I knew, and I never told him. His wife ran 
away from him and went abroad, and they were 
never divorced. He was afraid to divorce her— 
and when he said he was going to marry-” 

“Don’t shout,” said Andy sharply, “I’m not 
deaf. And I’m not keen on knowing any of your 
family troubles. I’m pretty sure you had nothing 
to do with the murder. Although”—he paused 
to give point to the next sentence—“although 
you are his heir and benefit by his death. Unless, 
of course,” he added, looking past the man but 
observing the understanding in his eyes, “unless 
you care to prove that he has a wife living. In 
that case his wife gets the lot. There may be a 
will.” 

Wilmot shook his head. 

“There isn’t a will,” he said in a milder tone. 
“I’m sorry I lost my temper, Macleod, but I’m 
rattled—and who wouldn’t be?” 

“Who wouldn’t be?” agreed Andy. 

He walked back with Arthur Wilmot and watched 



THE RING OF STELLA NELSON 89 


him into the house. The man had a charge to 
bring against somebody—against the girl who was 
not worth quarrelling about ? That gave him 
material for thought. Had they quarrelled, these 
two, whom Beverley Green regarded as “practically 
engaged” ? What hurt vanity went to the framing 
of those words “not worth a packet of pins”? 
He knew by the symptoms. The girl had wounded 
Wilmot’s pride, had touched him on a very raw 
place. And the conceit of the young man had been 
patent to Andy from the beginning. He had a 
trick of closing his eyes for a second or so when he 
spoke about himself and his accomplishments—a 
glaring advertisement of a man’s vanity. 

Slowly he paced the gravel. 

Should he go to the house? He looked at his 
watch. It was six o’clock. She would not be up. 
He looked dubiously at the silent house. The 
blinds were drawn, but she had told him that she 
rose at six when they had no servants. Yes, he 
hesitated, his knuckles raised to rap on the door. 
If she were about she would hear him. If she were 
asleep he could do no harm. He knocked, and 
instantly the door was opened. 


CHAPTER TEN 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 

Her face was white; there were shadows under 
her eyes. But—more damning evidence to him— 
she was wearing the grey silk stockings she had 
worn on the previous day, and a woman does not 
wear light-coloured stockings two days in succession. 
She had not undressed that night! 

She walked into the hall-room. One light burnt, 
for the curtains had not been pulled apart nor the 
blinds raised. 

“I was expecting you,” she said listlessly. “Will 
you please let me tell father before you take me 

away?” 

He stood, a man turned to ice. 

“Before—I take—you away?” he repeated. 

“I knew you would come for me. I have been 
waiting all night for you, Mr. Macleod. I don’t 
think I have moved from that chair.” 

She saw how ill he looked and dropped her head. 
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I was mad, just 
mad.” 

He recovered himself, and in two strides was 
before her, his hands gripping her shoulders. 

“You fool—you poor, dear fool,” he breathed. 
90 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


9i 


“Oh God! You fool! Look what you left—look!” 

He wrenched the scarf from his pocket and threw 
it on the table. On to this he tossed the ring. 

“My scarf—my ring! I remember.” 

He found some difficulty in speaking; his heart 
was beating at a rate that made the pathologist 
in him wonder. “I’m being as big a fool as you, 
Stella,” he said, “but I can’t—I can’t let you go 
through that hell. I’m in love with you, I suppose, 
which sounds pretty mad to me, but I’ll have my 
car ready in a quarter of an hour and I can get you 
out of the country before anybody suspects— 
associates you with the crime. I’m mad, of course, 
but I can’t see that-” 

She was looking at him in a frowning, puzzled 
way, open-eyed, and the eyes were wet. 

“You’re very—wonderful, doctor, but I can’t 
and Mr. Merrivan knows and is probably watching.” 

He stepped back. 

“Knows—watching? He’s dead!” 

She did not understand him. 

“Merrivan is dead—murdered last night.” 

“Murdered last night,” she repeated, and a stone 
rolled from his heart. 

“Phew!” He wiped his clammy forehead. “I 
am mad after all—to think you knew anything 
about it.” And then he sprang forward and caught 
her as her knees gave way. 

The first thought that came to her as she recovered 
consciousness was that he had thought her a 
murderess and had wanted to save her. Mr. 



92 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Merrivan was dead. That was terrible news. 
They might suspect her, too, but he didn’t, the 
man with the grey eyes who had searched her face 
and whom she had hated. Nothing else really 
mattered. 

“I think I am a little mad,” she said unsteadily, 
and the glass he held to her lips rattled against her 
chattering teeth. 

She looked up into his face as she drank; he saw 
the confidence of a child—the confidence her father 
might have inspired. 

“You’re wonderful, and I think you’ve been 
making love to me—love amongst the ruins!” she 
said jerkily. “It is dreadful, Mr. Merrivan’s death. 
I went to his house last night. He sent for me, 
and I agreed, because I wanted something.” 

“What was it, Stella ?” he asked gently. 

“I’ll never tell you that,” she said. “If I die I 
cannot tell you, doctor—Andrew, and I used to hate 
you so—and you’re quite nice.” 

His arm was about her shoulder and pillowed her 
brown head. As she spoke she played with the 
fingers of his supporting hand. 

“And then what happened?” 1 

“He was horrible to me. I musn’t talk that way 
about him now that he is dead, must I? But he 
was—awful—and I had to let him paw me”—he 
felt her shiver—“and kiss me, and then he showed 
me things I wanted, and he made me take my ring 
off and he put on the big flashing diamond ring; and 
then I snatched the things I wanted—they were on 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


93 


the table. And then he came after me, I pointed 
a revolver at him.” 

You had a revolver? Oh, Lord, Stella, you did 
all that you could to endanger your dear neck, didn’t 
you ?” 

‘T did, didn’t I? And then I flew out of the 
house.” 

“Which way did you come?” 

“By the front door. I don’t know any other 
way.” 

“You didn’t go through the orchard?” 

“No. Why should I ?” 

“Go on—you came straight home. What time 
was that ?” 

“Eleven. Beverley Church clock struck eleven 
as I opened the door.” 

“What made you go to him?” 

“A letter—a terrible letter—putting things 
plainly, and—and—alternatives as plainly. I—I 
destroyed the things I brought from the house, and 
then I waited for you to come and arrest me for what 
I’d done. I hoped a little bit that it wouldn’t be 
you, and then I hoped it would. I thought you 
wouldn’t be gruff and horrid like Inspector Dane. 
And when I saw you come to the gate—I somehow 
knew you were at the gate—I felt that I just wanted 
to get things over. I couldn’t endure any more. 
What are you thinking about, doct—Andrew?” 

“Did anybody see you go to the hpuse?” 

She shook her head. 

“Do you think—Wilmot saw you ?” 


94 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


'‘Arthur Wilmot? No. Why?” 

“He was rather mysterious about something. 
The things you destroyed, they were documents of 
some kind ?” 

She nodded. 

“Where did you burn them—here or at the 
house ?” 

“Here.” She pointed to the fireplace. “Where 
I burnt the letter.” 

“The letter asking you to go over ?” he demanded 
in dismay. “You didn’t burn that? Why, that 
would have proved everything!” 

She was not perturbed. 

“I don’t care—if you believe me,” she said, and 
came painfully to her feet. “I’m going to bed. 
No, I’m not. There is nobody to get daddy’s 
breakfast. He combines with a healthy appetite 
the fastidiousness proper to an invalid.” 

“You’re going to bed,” said Andy authorita¬ 
tively. “I’ll fix your father’s breakfast. I ’phoned 
yesterday for my man to come down. He can 
cook perfectly, and as a sweeper he has no rival.” 

“Are you sure?” she asked doubtfully, yet willing 
to be convinced, for she was aching for sleep. 

“I won’t suggest anything so indelicate as that 
I should carry you up,” he said gravely. “I have 
carried ladies of greater weight in the execution of 
my duty. They have generally been rather 
intoxicated.” 

“Thank you, I’ll walk,” hastily. She stopped 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


95 

half way up and leant over the rail, dropping her 
hand. 

“I’m very glad it was you,” she said as he took 
her hand in his and laid it to his cheek. 

“Father’s room is on the first floor—the front 
room,” were her last instructions. 

When she had gone he pulled up the blinds and 
opened the windows. He had not ’phoned for his 
servant. He had a servant, but the memory of his 
cooking made him shudder. Searching the kitchen 
and pantry, he made himself some tea, then he 
proceeded to the preparation of Kenneth Nelson’s 
breakfast. Several times, whilst so doing, he ex¬ 
plained to himself that he was engaged in the 
detection of a double murderer, and that it was 
absurd of him to be dusting a room, pausing now 
and then to listen for a boiling kettle. 

Kenneth Nelson was even more surprised at Andy 
than that gentleman had been at himself. He sat 
up gaping at the spectacle of an M.D. (Edinburgh) 
carrying in a tray, and his first impression was that 
he had suffered a relapse, and, following a period 
of unconsciousness, was a little light-headed. 

“What day is it?” he gasped. 

“It is still Monday,”' said Andy, setting down 
the tray. “Or it was before I came upstairs. I’ve 
sent your daughter to bed.” 

“She’s not ill ?” Kenneth was genuinely alarmed. 

“She’s tired. There has been an exciting night. 
Merrivan is dead, and I think you might get up 


96 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

to-day. A little intercourse with your fellow-men 
will be all to the good. But, Nelson, this village is 
dry for you. I can’t run a risk.” 

Nelson was shocked. 

"Merrivan dead! When did it happen? He 
looked the picture of health when I saw him last.” 

Andy did not give him particulars until the artist 
was dressed and downstairs. He came down carry¬ 
ing a tray of cold eggs and tea, and they breakfasted 
together. 

"That’s very bad. Poor Merrivan. He was not 
an especial friend of mine, but-” 

Andy saw his face twitch, as though some ugly 
and long inhibited memory had come to him. He 
knew this man’s weakness, and, given time, he 
could reach its foundation. The death of Merrivan 
had broken a seal that covered some chamber of 
his mind and the dark thought was loose and dis¬ 
turbing him. Throughout breakfast Andy saw him 
striving to catch and imprison the prison-breaker. 
But the thing had grown too big for its narrow cell, 
and Nelson grew graver and quieter, and more 
like the man that Andy had expected him to be. 

"Why was Stella up all night, doctor?” he 
asked. 

"She may have heard the shot, and possibly was 
told. One of the servants had hysteria and screamed 
for an hour on end. I wonder anybody in Beverley 
Green could sleeo.” 

He left Mr. Nelson preparing to go out and went 
off to the guest house. It was then eight o’clock, 



LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


97 

and he had had an exhausting six hours and at 
least three minutes of concentrated mental agony 
which had been more wearing than all the rest of 
his experiences. 

Inspector Dane was coming out of the bungalow 
as he arrived. 

“ ’Phone message from headquarters,” he 
reported. “All stations have been warned, and a 
warrant will be issued this morning for the arrest 
of Abraham Selim. Headquarters wants to know 
if you have any idea where he lives. They have 
found his office.” 

Andy had no information to offer. 

“Nothing else has been found?” he asked. 

“Nothing. There are finger prints on the polished 
part of the desk, and I am arranging for these to 
be photographed. The coroner would like to see 
you at eleven o’clock.” 

The formalities attaching to wilful murder are 
infinite, the actual “committee work” wearisome, 
but necessary. Andy was dog-tired and sleeping 
at an hour when most people were sitting down to 
dinner. 

Stella Nelson woke some time in the afternoon, 
and her first waking impression was that something 
pleasant had happened. In this spirit she continued 
as she bathed and dressed, though she knew that a 
murder had been committed within a few yards of 
her, and that she was the last known person to be 
in the victim’s company. She told herself this much, 
and accepted the self-reproach with great calmness. 


98 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


She was very sorry, and if people thought evilly 
of her it was unfortunate. She might be arrested 
yet. Even this terrific ending did not frighten her 
from her equable frame of mind. 

“You are cold-blooded, callous, and inhuman,” 
she said, “and unwomanly.” 

Possibly she was more womanly in that mood 
than in any other. The world is more narrowly and 
specifically confined to a woman than to a man. 
It can be reduced to one shining figure that stands 
out against a smudged background of vague and 
meaningless shapes. 

Andrew’s servant was evidently a rough and 
ready duster of rooms, she thought, as she straight¬ 
ened the ornaments he had left askew, and picked 
up the broom and dust-pan from the top of the 
piano. 

Kenneth Nelson came in bubbling with news. He 
had lunched at the club, and everybody had been 
there, and all had agreed that the murders were 
“bad business.” 

“I saw you were up,” she said. “Do you know 
where Andrew Macleod’s servant is? I want to 
thank him. Did he bring you your breakfast? I 
suppose you were surprised to see him?” 

“Dr. Macleod brought my breakfast. I didn’t 
see any servant,” he said. “I didn’t know he had 
one. I say, Stella, this is terrible news about Mer- 
rivan and that man.” 

“What man?” 

She asked the question without thinking. So 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


99 


Andrew was the awkward duster ? She felt inclined 
to put the broom and the dust-pan back on the piano. 

“What was his name—Sweeny-” 

“Sweeny ? What about him ?” she asked quickly. 

He told her the story, glad to find somebody 
who did not know. 

“Didn’t Macleod tell you? He said you’d heard 
the shot and were awake all night. Now, I’ve got 
a theory that Merrivan and this man had a sort of 
duel-” 

He expounded his theory at length, and she was 
only too glad to hear him talk and be relieved of the 
necessity for replying. 

She wondered how Andrew had found the eggs. 
She ought to have told him that the bread was in the 
earthenware pan and the butter in the refrigerator. 
She would* not finish his dusting; that would be a 
desecration—like “improving” a beautiful ruin. 
The teaspoons—how did he find the teaspoons? 
Of course he was a detective. 

“What the dickens are you laughing at?” asked 
the outraged Mr. Nelson. “I don’t think it is a 
laughing matter, Stella, by gad!”' 

“I’m sorry dear—hysteria—or something. What 
is this?” 

She took the letter from his hand. 

“A cheque from Mandbys, bigger than I ex¬ 
pected,” he said. “I’d nearly forgotten, dear, but 
seeing you sniggering reminded me.” 

He had never before given her a cheque he had 
received. Usually he carried it to the bank himself 




IOO 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


and the next morning she was looking for new 
servants. He was absurdly proud of his reforma¬ 
tion, and she was touched. 

“You dear!” She kissed him and hung to him, 
and Mr. Nelson experienced some of the forgotten 
satisfaction which belongs to virtue. 

“Macleod’s in charge of the case. I saw him for 
a minute or two, looking perfectly ghastly. It 
shocked even him. He told me so. ‘I had a bad 
ten minutes this morning,’ he said. Poor chap; 
but cheerful! My dear, he was as cheerful as— 
as you are. I suppose these fellows get used to it. 
A capable man that. I’m glad he is here.” 

“So am I,” she said, and glanced at the streaks of 
dust on the top of a table. 

Mr. Nelson had one item of good news. He had 
met a former cook of theirs in Beverley, and to that 
good lady’s surprise had stopped and talked to her. 
In his sober moments he never admitted outside 
of the house that he was anything else. This had 
made reconciliations between discharged helps and 
their former employer a little difficult. 

“I told her that I’d given up drinking,” he said. 
“A bit of a pill to swallow, eh, Stella? But I did 
it. After all, she knew. Her sister is expecting her 
fourth baby,” he added inconsequently, and went on, 
“she’s coming this afternoon and bringing her 
sister—no, not that one; a younger one. She’s a 
good parlourmaid. Quite a nice girl, engaged to 
a soldier in India, so we shall keep her for a bit.” 

Stella blessed Andrew once more. 


LOVE AMIDST THE RUINS 


IOI 


She tried all that afternoon to recall or to re¬ 
construct within herself just how she felt when she 
had first met him. It was a little difficult. You 
cannot reconstruct fear without being afraid. There 
are certain elements of emotion which defy synthesis. 
She would have given all that she had to give to li*e 
over those three minutes when he thought she was 
confessing to the murder. His terror—his love; she 
felt the grip of his hands on her shoulder. How 
long had she known him? She had seen him four 
times and had spoken a dozen sentences before he 
told her that he would sacrifice his profession and 
his honour for her safety. The violence of his abuse 

—he had called her a fool, a damned fool- 

Fortunately her father had gone. He would 
never have understood her gurgling laughter. 
Resolutely she went in search of the dust-pan and 
the broom, and put them on the top of the piano 
with a bang. 



CHAPTER ELEVEN 


nirntw 


FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 

“Who was the woman in Mr. Merrivan’s room? 
The butler of the deceased man heard a woman’s 
voice distinctly. Mr. Merrivan had received 
no visitors that evening. The butler had admitted 
nobody, and yet, coming downstairs half an 
hour after Mr. Merrivan had told him to go to 
bed, he heard the sound of voices, and one of 
those voices was a woman’s. Who was this 
mysterious visitor ? In all probability she can 
throw a light upon a double crime, which in its 
sensational features has no parallel in recent years.” 

Andy read the newspaper leader calmly. There 
were others very similarly worded. The reporters 
had got to the butler. That was inevitable. He 
couldn’t keep the man locked up, and apparently 
the warning he had delivered had had no effect. 

The first reporter he saw the next morrfing 
brought the incident of the woman forward as being 
of supreme importance. 

“Possibly,” said Andy, “she might tell us some¬ 
thing, but obviously she could not throw any light 
on the murder. She was seen leaving the house 
,102 


FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 


103 

at eleven o’clock. The murder was not committed 
until past one.” 

“Who saw her leave?” 

“Ah ha!” said Andy, smiling, “that is my own 
pet mystery. Seriously, I shouldn’t bank on the 
woman. She may have been a neighbour who very 
naturally is horrified at the thought of publicity.” 

To the second reporter he was more explicit. 

“Curiously enough, it was I who saw her. I 
was sitting at the open window. It was a warm, 
beautiful night, and almost as clear as though the 
moon was shining. I saw her crossing the green; 
she passed under my window and out on the main 
road.” 

Andrew Macleod was a problem to Andrew 
Macleod. He was working for two ends—to keep 
the girl out of the case; to bring to justice the 
murderer. The facility with which he lied amazed 
him. Ordinarily scrupulous to a degree, so that 
even to gain a conviction when the guilt of a 
prisoner was known to him he would never stretch 
supposition into fact; yet he was now lying glibly, 
shamelessly. 

At the announcement of every new reporter he 
expected to see the hard features of one man who 
would be more difficult than any other. Happily, 
a certain Mr. Downer did not put in an appearance. 
He asked one of the other reporters: 

“I should have thought that this was a case for 
Downer ?” 

The journalist made a wry face. 


104 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Downer is away on his holidays. I’m very 
glad. I hate working with him.” 

Andy smiled to himself. He shared the other’s 
relief. He had replied to the wire he had received 
from headquarters placing him in charge and asking 
if he required any help. There was a big end of 
the case in town, and he left that to the town men, 
expressing himself as satisfied with the assistance 
that was at hand. His unofficial and most 
unexpected helper arrived at about eleven, when 
he had seen the last of the reporters. 

A thin, long man, wearing loose knickerbockers 
and golfing shoes, arrived at the guest house, and 
the manager’s jaw dropped at the sight of him. 

“Good morning, Johnston,” said the new-comer 
cheerfully. “Is Macleod about H” 

“Mr. Macleod is in his sitting-room,” said the 
manager slowly. “It is rather surprising to see 
you, professor.” 

“Four-eyed Scottie” took off his gold-mounted 
spectacles and polished them with a purple silk 
handkerchief. 

“It was a mistake, a foolish police error. I do 
not resent it. After all, Johnston, we must remem¬ 
ber that in every highly efficient police system such 
mistakes must occur. Never blame the police, what¬ 
ever inconvenience you may be put to. It is better 
that a dozen innocent citizens shall be arrested than 
one miscreant should escape.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the dazed Johnston, falling 
naturally into the attitude of deference which he 


FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 


io5 


had shown to the former guest. ““Did you want 
to see Mr. Macleod?” He hesitated. ‘‘What name 
shall I give ?” 

“Bellingham, Professor Bellingham,” said Scottie, 
and added. “My own name.” 

A minute later: 

“Professor who?” said Andy. 

“Bellingham, sir, the gentleman who was staying 
here before.” 

“The devil!” said Andy. “Show him up.” 

Scottie strolled into the room, dismissed Mr. 
Johnston with a nod, and closed the door. 

“To what miracle am I indebted for this visit, 
Scottie?” 

“The miracle of justice,” said Scottie as he sat 
down uninvited. “Fiat justicia, etc. I bear no ill- 
feeling, Macleod.” 

Andy chuckled. 

“So your alibi got past, did it ?” 

Scottie nodded solemnly. 

“The beak said that he could not commit me, 
an'd that it was evidently a case of mistaken identity. 
Such things have happened before and will happen 
again, Macleod. To be absolutely honest, I was 
playing solo whist with Mr. Felix Lawson, a well- 
known licensed victualler-” 

“And a receiver of stolen goods,” added Andy 
pointedly. “There is a conviction against him on 
that score unless I am mistaken.” 

“Don’t let us rake up old scandals,” said Scottie; 
“the point is that here I am, and at your service.” 



io6 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

Andy swung round to face his visitor. 

“What name did you give Johnston ?” 

“Bellingham, Professor Bellingham. It is a 
nom de guerre. After all, what is a professor ? 
One who professes. I profess to understand 
geology, from Leibnitz to Hutton. The palaeozoic 
rock, with which I include the Devonian system, 
is my long suit, and-” 

•“We won’t quarrel over the question of your 
erudition,” said Andy good-temperedly. “The 
point is, why have you come here ? Having escaped 
the just processes of the law—I suspect perjury 
on an extensive scale-” 

Scottie drew up his chair nearer. 

“I told you something about this place,” he said 
sombrely. “I told you there was trouble coming, 
and it has come.” 

Andy nodded. He had remembered Scottie’s 
warning a good many times since the murder. 

“Now I’ll unfurl another fold of information,” 
said Scottie. “Under the rose, over the stone, and 
on the square”—he shifted his feet symbolically— 
“we’re talking as brothers.” 

“Do you know anything about it?” asked Andy. 

“I don’t know; I’m only guessing. I took to 
this place partly because it was off the main road, 
and partly because it looked pretty good to me, 
with all those rich people hanging round with silver 
and gold for the taking. That Sheppard woman 
wears pearls like eggs. Her husband is a municipal 
architect, and naturally a grafter. But that is by 





FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 


107 


the way. I tell you, there are pickings in this place 
for a—a scientist. Naturally I have reconnoitred 
the village from the club house to the Sheppard’s 
garage. The only house in the village that wouldn’t 
show a profit on a night’s work is the Nelsons, but 
probably you know that as well as I do. Not that 
it doesn’t hold a treasure-*’ 

“Get on with your speculations,” said Andy 
shortly, and was sorry, for Scottie shot a quick, 
enquiring glance at him. Nevertheless, he made no 
further reference either to the Nelsons’ house or to 
the treasure it contained. 

“I’ve been all over Merrivan’s grounds, and he 
is the only man who has taken adequate precautions 
to deal with robbers and thieves. There is a 
burglar alarm on every window except the back 
window of his study, and that has a patent bolt at 
the edge and can’t be forced from the outside. He’s 
got a gun, which he keeps in a little cupboard be¬ 
hind his desk. The door looks like one of the panels 
of the wall, but it isn’t.” 

“That is one I missed,” said Andy, interested. 
“How does it open?” 

Scottie shook his head. 

“I’ve never been inside, but I’ve seen it. And 
I’ll tell you another one, Macleod; the back window 
hasn’t a burglar alarm, because that’s the way old 
Merrivan used to go out at nights. Under the 
window outside there is a broad stone seat. You 
saw that?” 

“Where did he go?” 



108 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

“I don’t know; I only saw him once; but he 
stepped out so pert and lively that I knew he must 
have gone that way before—through the orchard to 
God knows where. I never # f olio wed him; it would 
have been indelicate. Fat men are entitled to their 
adventures as much as we thin men.” 

“When did you see him go out by the window ?” 

“The night before you fixed me,” said Scottie. 
“The time was about eleven-thirty. I didn’t see 
him come back, but I did observe the man who 
followed him. Not distinctly in the sense that I 
could tell you who he was, or pick him out from 
twenty other men. That is why I didn’t follow. I 
guessed that Merrivan had his own trouble coming 
to him, and although, due to the miscarriage of 
justice, I have certainly appeared in law courts, I 
have never descended to taking the stand in a 
divorce case. Have I interested you?” 

“You have indeed, Scottie. I suppose you’ve 
some idea of the height of the man?” 

“He is a little man, rather about your size,” said 
Scottie, with the insolence of six feet. 

“About fifty-nine inches?” 

“That’s it,” nodded Scottie, and corrected him¬ 
self. “No, I wouldn’t say he was even as big as 
that. Honestly, he was a little fellow. I should 
say he didn’t come up to your shoulder. But it is 
very difficult to judge, even in the moonlight. I 
spotted this fellow before Merrivan came out. The 
trunks of the trees in the orchard are lime-washed, 
and I saw him pass a trunk, and that scared me a 


FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 


109 


bit. I took an entirely selfish view; my first thought 
was for my own safety, so I didn’t go along and 
investigate. And then Merrivan came out and 
walked off as I told you. He had disappeared 
before this fellow who was watching in the orchard 
made any move, and then I saw him just for a 
second in the moonlight. The impression I had 
was that this wasn’t the first time he had been 
watching, and maybe he had good reason.” 

“What you say puts rather a new complexion 
upon the case,” said Andy thoughtfully. “To tell 
you the truth, Scottie, I was anxious to find that 
new complexion. It gives us a line. You’ve heard 
no scandal?” 

Scottie shook his head. 

“I never listen to such things,” he said virtuously. 
“But I certainly did look hard at all the women up 
at the golf house the next morning, without finding 
one of the married ladies who would inspire a man 
of taste and discrimination.” 

Andy thought for a while. 

“I don’t exactly know what I am going to do 
with you, Scottie, or how I am going to explain you. 
I think you would be very helpful, but naturally 
you can’t go back to your old role of social pet.” 

“I was never exactly that,” said Scottie un¬ 
abashed. “I had the glamour with which science 
envelops her votaries.” 

Andy laughed. 

“Anyway, I’m glad to see you, Scottie, and 
almost glad, though it is an immoral thing to say, 


no 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


that you’ve got away with it. Now what am 
I to do with you? I wonder if the Nelsons would 
harbour you? I’m not certain about Mr. Nelson.” 

He implied that he was very certain of the girl, 
and Scottie gathered that at least he had got 
acquainted. 

“Just wait here whilst I run over,” he said. 
“Don’t read my correspondence if you can avoid 
it.” 

Here his guest was genuinely ruffled, but Andy 
laughed him down. 

Stella, rioting in the sense of luxury which two 
capable servants brought to her, was working in 
the garden when Andy came through the gate, and 
she stripped off her gloves and offered her hand. 

“Stella, I want you to help me. There’s an old 
friend of mine arrived, and I cannot exactly keep 
him in the guest house, and I really want his as¬ 
sistance.” 

“But why not the guest house?” she asked in 
surprise. “Father could sponsor him.” 

“It is Scottie,” he explained. “You remember 
Four-eyed Scottie?” 

“The professor?” she said in surprise. “I 
thought he was in prison.” 

“There has been a miscarriage of justice,” said 
Andy calmly, “and he’s got off. Could you put 
him up? I know that it is an extraordinary thing 
to ask, for Scottie is undoubtedly a crook. But I 
promise you that he won’t disgrace you or steal 
your silver. At the same time it will be necessary 


FOUR-EYED SCOTTIE 


hi 


to offer a plausible explanation to your father.” 

She wrinkled her forehead in thought. 

“If father ever really thought it was a miscarriage 
of justice—I mean his being arrested at all—and 
that the professor was in consequence a little 
sensitive-” 

“That’s it,” said Andy, and went into the house 
to interview Mr. Kenneth Nelson. 

He found him in the studio paying marked atten¬ 
tion to Pygmalion’s left eye, and Mr Nelson listened 
with interest to the story of Scottie’s return. 

“Naturally I quite understand,” he said. “The 
poor chap will not want to meet all these people 
again, and if, as you say, he wants to complete his 
study of the Beverley strata—Beverley, by the way, 
has the distinction of possessing a strata of its own 
—I’ll accommodate him with pleasure, though I 
have never heard of people geologising by night.” 

“The professor is a remarkable man,” said Andy 
gravely. 



CHAPTER TWELVE 


THE MAN FROM NOWHERE 

Scottie’s installation at the Nelsons served a 
double purpose. It recruited to Andy a shrewd if 
unprincipled, lieutenant, and it gave him a more 
comfortable feeling about leaving Stella with no 
other protection than her father. There was the 
indisputable fact that somewhere at large was the 
murderer, and that that murderer had possibly 
seen the interview between the girl and Merrivan, 
and might, to save his own skin, implicate her. 
For how had Stella’s scarf reached the orchard? 
For what purpose it had been taken he could not 
guess, but this was clear—that the murderer was 
well aware of her presence. 

He drove to town that morning, carrying with 
him the charred diary which had told him nothing, 
for half the pages had been torn out and burnt 
separately before the book was thrown upon the fire* 

His first call was at Ashlar Buildings. Mr. 
Abraham Selim’s office was in the hands of the 
police, and the predecessor of Sweeny had been 
found and was waiting for him. The most im¬ 
portant find that the police had made was a letter 
which was addressed to Sweeny. It was evidently 


THE MAN FROM NOWHERE 113 


in answer to one which Sweeny had left for his 
master, and it dealt with the prosaic matter of office¬ 
cleaning and the expenses to be incurred. Its im¬ 
portance, from Andy’s point of view, was that the 
writing was identical with that which had been 
discovered on Merrivan’s desk. 

The second fact which was elicited—and this 
evidence came from an elevator boy who knew 
Sweeny—was that the man had been discharged 
the day before his murder. The reason for his being 
fired was also learnt. Selim had accused him of 
steaming open letters and reading the contents, and 
his complaint was probably well founded, though 
the man had denied it to his confidante. 

There was little else to learn. Sweeny’s pre¬ 
decessor had never seen his employer, and he 
apparently followed the same procedure as the man 
to whom he had handed over his duties. The letters 
were left in the safe and usually collected on Satur¬ 
days and Wednesdays, on which days the clerk was 
not expected to go anywhere near the office. No¬ 
body had ever seen the mysterious Mr. Selim enter 
or leave the office and the hall porter did not know 
him. There was a possibility that he occupied 
another suit in the building, but enquiries accounted 
for all the other tenants. Thinking that from 
proximity the staff might have seen something of 
Mr. Selim, Andy personally visited the next office, 
which was occupied by a firm of shippers, Messrs. 
Wentworth & Wentworth. 

He found that the staff consisted of a girl typist, 


ri 4 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


and, from what she told him, the firm of Wentworth 
& Wentworth had seen better days, and the business 
was kept on from sentiment rather than from any 
profits which accrued. 

“Mr. Wentworth is out just now,’’ 1 said the girl. 
“He is not in very good health, and only comes 
to the office two days a week, and I know that he 
could not tell you much about Mr. Selim.” 

“Have you ever seen Mr. Selim by any chance?” 

“No, sir,” she shook her head, “and I am sure 
Mr. Wentworth hasn’t, because he said to me once 
or twice how curious it was that nobody ever saw 
Mr. Selim. The only person from that office I 
have seen was the clerk. He was there from eleven 
to one. It was a nice easy job for him. I wonder 
he was so silly as to lose it.” 

She had heard also of the steamed envelope 
apparently. 

Andy called on the local Income Tax Inspector. 
He reported that Mr. Selim’s accounts were always 
rendered in excellent order and that the tax was 
paid. He had not seen the man and had had no 
occasion to call upon him. 

Andy left a detective in charge of the office and 
went back to Beverley Green, very little wiser than 
when he had started out. 

Would Scottie know—Scottie, with his queer 
knowledge of the underworld and the strange 
people who constituted its population? He would 
consult Scottie. He had frequently consulted him 


THE MAN FROM NOWHERE 115 

since he had been staying at the Nelsons. It gave 
him an excuse for calling. 

He found that worthy gentleman initiating 
Stella into the mysteries of bezique. Mr. Nelson 
was at the club expounding a new theory. 

“Selim? Abraham Selim? Yes, he is a money¬ 
lender, and he’s on the crook, too, I think.” 

Andy observed that the girl’s face had become 
suddenly serious. She was, in fact, experiencing 
the first twinge of uneasiness she had felt since the 
crime had been committed. 

“I have never met anybody who knew him, but 
I have met lots of people who have been financed 
by him. He is a bad egg.” 

“Is he the kind of man who would threaten 
some one who would not pay?” 

“Threaten?” said the other contemptuously. 
“There’s nothing that Selim wouldn’t do. A friend 

of mi-” He corrected himself. “A man I 

have heard about, Harry Hopson, double-crossed 
him for a matter of two hundred. He got Harry 
ten years. Not that Harry didn’t deserve it, but 
Selim certainly put a fine case against him, an old 
on 2 that Harry had forgotten. Anyway, he went 
down for ten years.” 

One thing was certain, that if Merrivan was in 
such financial difficulties that he had been obliged 
to borrow from Selim, his indebtedness represented 
an enormous sum. His tradesmen had been paid 
up until the Saturday, there was a balance at his 



n6 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

bank amounting to several thousands, and there 
was no evidence at all that he was pressed for money. 
Until the accountant had set to work on his securities 
it was difficult to tell how rich he was. No corre¬ 
spondence of any kind had been discovered that 
revealed the slightest obligation to the mystery 
man, nor were any other letters found from the 
moneylender. 

One point had been cleared up—the extraordinary 
boots which Merrivan had been wearing at the 
moment of his death. He had been in the habit 
of making nocturnal visits—but why the heavy 
boots, if, as Scottie supposed, the object of his 
midnight rambles was in the village itself? And if 
that were the case, why wear boots which would 
make an infernal din the moment they were on 
gravel or wood? ’Surely rubber-soled shoes would 
be more in keeping with that kind of adventure? 
Andy considered these matters as he walked across 
to Merrivan’s house. 

All day long and for two days the place had 
been besieged by reporters. There had been an 
inflow of strange men with cameras and inquisitive 
youths with note-books. At this hour the last of 
the newspaper men had gone. He had promised 
himself the task of a thorough inspection of 
the house. Up till now he had confined his 
minutest scrutiny to the long room and contented 
himself with a casual examination of the other 
apartments. *■ 

The remaining inspection narrowed itself to a 


THE MAN FROM NOWHERE 


ii 7 


more careful search of Mr. Merrivan’s bedroom. 
It was on the first floor, in front of the house, and 
consisted of a large and airy bedroom, furnished 
only with the necessities of toilet, a dressing-room 
leading out from one door and a handsomely 
appointed bathroom opening from another. Mr. 
Merrivan had taken a great deal of pains to secure 
his comfort. The bathroom was surprisingly 
luxurious. It was lined with marble, and had been 
fitted by a Swiss firm which specialised in this kind 
of work. The furniture in the bedroom consisted 
of a four-poster bed, a tail-boy, and a large bureau. 
The floor was partly covered by a square of grey 
carpet. There was also a dressing-chest, a smaller 
table, and a low arm-chair and two other chairs, 
and this practically comprised the contents. 

He began by devoting a little more attention to 
the bed than he had been able to give to it. It was 
a very, solid piece of furniture, and the supports at 
both sides were heavy and thick. He tapped one 
of them at the head of the bed and found it solid. 
The footboard was beautifully carved on the inner 
side, the outer side being fairly plain, except for 
two carved shields surmounted by a heraldic rose 
which appeared on the squat footposts. He turned 
up the bed and examined the mattresses, spent an 
unprofitable half-hour in tapping the walls and 
examining the remaining furniture. 

It baffled him that he could find no further 
reference to Abraham Selim. Not a single docu¬ 
ment had been discovered which threw any light 


n8 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

upon the threat contained in the letter found by the 
dead man’s desk. As for Abraham Selim, he had 
disappeared completely. Every letter arriving at 
his office had been opened, and the surprising volume 
of his business and the solid character of his clientele 
had been revealed, but neither letter of appeal for 
loans or time to pay gave any clue to his identity. 
The man was a usurer of the worst type, and his 
disappearance must have been a relief to scores of 
unhappy people who were in his clutches. 

But it was an extraordinary circumstance, and 
one which puzzled the police, that there was no 
documentary proof of the obligations of his clients. 
No bill or promissory notes were discovered in the 
office or at his bank. Usually a moneylender lodges 
these, with his other securities, in the bank’s vaults. 
Nor was his credit a very high one. Though an 
enormous volume of business passed through his 
accounts, his floating balance was never more than 
a few thousands, and the money he paid in was, as 
soon as the cheques were cleared, withdrawn again. 
When it was necessary for him to cover a cheque 
he had issued for any large amount, it came to the 
bank manager in the shape of notes. 

Here again it would seem impossible that this 
elusive man could have escaped observation. He 
must have gone to the bank to open an account, 
argued the police, but it proved to be that the 
account had been transferred from a country branch, 
the manager of which was dead. Even had he been 
alive, it is probable he would have failed to have 


THE MAN FROM NOWHERE 119 


given any satisfactory testimony as to the identity 
of Abraham Selim. 

To say that he had hidden his tracks would be 
untrue. He had made no tracks to hide. He had 
come from nowhere unseen, and, unseen, had 
vanished into the void from when he came. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


THE LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA 

Scottie rarely went abroad in the daylight, not 
because of any secretiveness on his own part, but 
in deference to the wishes of Andy. If he were 
visible in the daylight, it was usually between one 
o’clock and two in the afternoon, at which hour 
Beverley Green was usually settled at lunch. 

He came out by the side entrance of Nelsons’ 
house, his objective being the guest house and Andy. 
Under his arm was the morning newspaper, a report 
in which was the subject of his visit, for there was 
a reference to himself which had made him uneasy. 
Some callow reporter who had evidently not heard 
of the happy conclusion to what Scottie euphemisti¬ 
cally described as his “law suit” had written of a 
“sensational arrest in this delightful backwater of 
life” prior to the murder, and had evolved from 
this a conclusion unflattering to Scottie. 

He had hardly taken a step upon the road when 
he stopped. 

A big car blocked his way, being half on the road 
and half embedded in the shrubbery which bordered 
the Green, and which, as Scottie knew, was the 
pride of its inhabitants. 


120 


LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA 121 


The red-faced chauffeur was making a frantic 
attempt to turn in the narrow road, with deplorable 
results to the arboreal beauties of the community. 
But it was not the chauffeur or the resplendent 
machine, nor yet the flurry and the snort of engines 
in reverse, that absorbed Scottie. It was the solitary 
occupant of the car. 

She was a woman of uncertain age, stout and still 
comely. Under a toque of silver tissue her hair 
shone with a metallic redness, from which hue her 
black eyebrows rebelled. The red of her face was 
equally defiant of the thick layer of powder with 
which she had overlaid her natural heartiness of 
colouring. Her blue eyes bulged somewhat, giving 
the impression that she was permanently surprised. 
All this Scottie saw between an expert inspection 
of embellishments more substantial. 

In the lobe of each ear was a diamond the size 
of a peanut; about her neck were three strings of 
pearls of great size; and attached to her person in 
this region was a diamond bar, a brilliant plaque 
that flashed a thousand colours in his dazzled eyes, 
and a large emerald clasp. 

Scottie, looking at her glittering hands, concluded 
there were no rings on her thumbs. 

“Very sorry to make such a fuss, but why don't 
you build your roads wider?" She favoured 
Scottie with a friendly smile. 

He started at the sound of the voice. It was so 
utterly unlike anything that he had expected, and 
he gathered from her accent that she had lived some 


122 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


years in America. It was that strange intonation 
which English people acquire after a long sojourn 
in the United States. And it was a voice that made 
Scottie wince, for this woman with the diamonds 
was gutter-bred and gutter-reared, for all her 
obvious wealth. 

“Common/’ thought Scottie, and wondered how 
she had charmed the diamonds. 

“I ain’t—haven’t been around here for years,” 
she went on, naturally mistaking her audience for a 
resident. “They tell me all about this place at Bev- 
ereley. There’s been a murder here, hasn’t there?” 

“There has,” said Scottie, and politely handed 
up his paper. “You’ll find a very full account here 
if you’d like to read it, madam.” 

“Didn’t bring my glasses,” she said briskly, but 
took the newspaper from his hand. “A gentle¬ 
man murdered \ How shocking! They didn’t tell 
me his name, and it wouldn’t have meant anything 
to me if they had. Say, these murders are awful, 
ain’t they? We had one right near to us in Santa 
Barbara, and the Senator, my dear late husband, 
wouldn’t tell me anything about it. Thought it 
would upset me, I guess. Senator Crafton-Bonsor. 
Maybe you’ve heard of him? His name was in 
the newspapers a whole lot. Not that he worried 
about what newspapers said.” 

Scottie judged that the newspapers had been un¬ 
kind. But a United States Senator? That was a 
stiff one to swallow. He knew little about American 
public men, his experience being limited to a nodding 


LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA 123 


acquaintance with sundry District Attorneys; but 
he had an idea that Senators were men of taste and 
discrimination. 

“Well, I’ll get along, mister. My, it must be 
creepy living in a place where a murder was com¬ 
mitted! I’d never sleep at nights, mister-” 

“My name is Bellingham, Professor Bellingham.” 

She was impressed. 

“Why, isn’t that fi-ne! It must be grand to be 
a professor. There was one come to our house in 
Santa Barbara—I’d like you to see my house; 
why, the lawn’s as big as this village—he was 
wonderful. Got rabbits out of a plug hat, and he 
showed me the hat before and it was certainly 
empty. Such a clever man. Well, I’ll get along, 
mister—professor, I mean. I’m staying at the 
Great Metropolitan. My, they know how to charge. 
And when I asked for a cantaloupe they’d no idea 
what I meant. Good-bye.” 

The car went on and out of sight, leaving Scottie 
a very thoughtful man. 

“Did you see that car?” was the first question 
he put to Andy. 

“No, I heard one. I thought it was a tradesman’s 
truck.” 

“It was surely a truck,” agreed Scottie, “but, 
Macleod, you should have seen the goods. About 
—well, I won’t attempt to give you an estimate. 
It was fierce! And what a lady!” 

Andy had other interests than chance visitors 
to Beverley Green. 



1254 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“How is Miss Nelson?” he asked. 

“Wonderful,” said Scottie. “She is going a 
long walk up the valley this afternoon.” 

Andy went red. 

“Who said so?” he demanded. 

“She did,” said Scottie coolly, “and she par¬ 
ticularly reminded me to tell you. There’s some¬ 
thing highly intelligent about Miss Nelson, that’s 
why she’s different to the majority of girls I’ve 
met. A lot of that maidenly modesty you read 
about in books is punk.” 

“I certainly am not going to discuss Miss Nelson’s 
sense of modesty, Scottie,” said Andy haughtily, 
“and I see no particular reason why you should 
draw any inferences from what Miss Nelson said. 
She probably meant you to tell me that she is 
feeling well enough to take a solitary walk.” 

“Maybe,” agreed Scottie. “She told me that 
she’d be at the second golf hut at three o’clock and 
she’d wait for you.” 

Andy had no immediate explanation to offer. 

“And talking of love,” Scottie went on, “I’d like 
you to see what the Post Herald reporter said about 
the arrest of a dangerous criminal—meaning me— 
a few days before the murder.” 

Andy had been waiting by the golf hut ten minutes 
t>efore the girl came into view. 

“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t be able to 
get away,” she said when she reached him. “The 
professor told you, didn’t he?” 


LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA 125 

“Oh, yes, he told me,” : said Andy drily. 

“Oh, and did he tell you what that queer-looking 
woman said?” she asked eagerly. “He had quite a 
long conversation with her. Her car has broken 
down two lovely lilac bushes. Really, people are 
careless, trying to turn a big car in that narrow 
road!” 

“What queer woman was this?” asked Andy. 
“Scottie made some reference to her. A visitor?” 

Stella nodded. 

“I saw her through the window. She simply 
blazed! I haven’t had a chance of speaking to 
Mr. Scottie. I was dressing when he came back.” 

They were walking at a leisurely .pace towards- 

Andy wasn’t quite sure then or after which way 
they went, except that they came to the hedged 
boundaries of Beverley Hall. He was out of the 
world, in a new and tangible heaven. Attractive, 
pretty, beautiful? He had asked that question 
before. The profile was perfect, the colouring as 
delicate in the unromantic sunlight as it had been 
when the glamour of soft lights might have played 
tricks with his eyesight. 

“Arthur Wilmot cut me this morning,” she said. 

“Oh. Why? I thought—people said-” 

He did not finish his awkward sentence. 

“That I was engaged to him?” she laughed 
softly. “They engage you very—very fluently at 
Beverley. I never was engaged to him. I used 
to wear a ring on the finger because—well, the ring 
fitted that finger. Daddy gave it to me.” 




126 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


He heaved a sigh, and she heard it, and glanced 
quickly sideways at him, then looked as quickly 
in the opposite direction. 

“What does Arthur Wilmot do for a living?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered. “He is some¬ 
thing in the city. He never talks about his business 
and nobody knows what he is. That is curious, 
because most boys talk of their work—most of the 
boys I know. They’re frightfully proud of their 
own cleverness, and there isn’t very much more 
for them to talk about. You never talk about 
yourself, Doctor Andrew.” 

“I thought that I was unusually loquacious— 
Miss Nelson.” 

“Don’t be silly. You called me Stella, and a 
fool, and a something fool, almost the first time 
we met. It is rather wonderful, isn’t it?” 

“I certainly had a nerve,”' he confessed. 

“I mean about—well, about our knowing each 
other so well, and liking you. I don’t like people 
until I’ve known them for ever so long. Perhaps it 
was the reaction. I used to hate you; you made 
me feel so guilty when you. looked at me. I used 
to think what a horrible man you must be; just like 
a bloodhound that hunts poor wretched slaves.” 

“So I made you feel like something out of Uncle 
Tom’s Cabint” he smiled. “I rather enjoy that 
sensation. I suppose people think of the police that 
way. But we flatter ourselves that the sight of a 
policeman’s bright buttons brings a glow of joy to 
the good citizen’s heart.” 


LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA 127 

“I’m not a good citizen,” she said shortly. “Pm 
a very bad citizen. You don’t know how bad.” 

“I can guess,” said he. 

They went on for a long time after this, neither 
speaking a word. 

“Stella,” he said suddenly, “when you saw Mer- 
rivan did he—well, did he give you any idea of the 
future—where he was going to live?” 

“In Italy,” she said with a shiver. “He told me 
that he would have a lot of money and that he had 
bought a beautiful palace on Como.” 

“He didn’t say that he had the money?” 

“No. I distinctly remember him saying 'will 
have/ He gave me the impression that he was 
going to get it from somewhere. Please don’t let 
us talk about it.” 

Where was the money to come from? wondered 
Andy. From Abraham Selim? Or had he already 
secured and hidden the money, and had Abraham 
Selim, discovering his intention of living abroad, 
tried to get it back? Selim never sued a man in 
court. That was a curious circumstance. It 
seemed that he never lent money unless he had some 
sort of hold on his victim. 

Crossing a stile, he took Stella’s hand and did 
not release it when he had helped her over. Nor 
did she draw it away. She was peacefully happy in 
the communionship. The touch of that strong hand 
that held hers as lightly as though it were a piece of 
fragile china was especially soothing. Something 
of his strength and equanimity had passed to her 


128 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


when those hands had first gripped her shoulders. 
Now she was invincible, could look to any future 
that Fate might send, without a qualm. 

“You’re very serious, aren’t you?” she asked as 
they were coming back. “Andrew, I knew our walk 
would be just like this—lovely. This, and nothing 
more. I don’t want any more—yet; it is perfect. 
And we can’t repeat it to-morrow, because*—well, it 
is like trying to repeat a party that has been 
spontaneously happy. It falls flat the next time. 
Our walks would never be that.” 

They stopped by the second golf hut where their 
stroll had begun. There was nobody in sight. 

“I want you to kiss me,” she said simply. 

Andy bent his head, and her quivering lips 
touched his. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


A gamekeeper who heard a shot 

Mr. Boyd Salter was sitting at a small table 
drawn up near the open window of his library, a 
window which commanded an extensive view of 
the valley and a corner of Beverley Green. He 
was engaged in an elaborate game of patience, yet 
he was not so completely absorbed that he could 
not pause for lengthy periods and take an interest 
in such trivial things as came into his range of vi¬ 
sion. Once it was a small flock of sheep that 
cropped their way slowly across the meadowlands. 
Once it was the swift downward swoop of a grey¬ 
ish hawk, and its disappearance with a limp victim. 
Then he saw a man in a long dark coat, and him 
he watched for a time. The stranger was behaving 
curiously, but he was too far away for the master 
of Beverley Hall to distinguish exactly his busi¬ 
ness, for he was skirting a plantation from which, 
apparently, he had emerged. 

Mr. Salter pressed a bell at his elbow. 

“Bring me my field-glasses, Tilling. Is there a 
keeper about ?” 

“Madding is in the servants’ hall, sir.” 

“Send him, please, but bring my glasses first.” 

129 


i 3 o THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Through the prismatics he saw the stranger, with¬ 
out then recognising him. He seemed to be search¬ 
ing for something, for his progress was slow and he 
followed a zigzag path. 

Boyd Salter turned his head. A stout and red¬ 
faced man, in velveteen coat and gaiters, had been 
ushered into the room. 

‘‘Madding, who is that walking by Spring Co¬ 
vert?” 

The gamekeeper shaded his eyes. 

“Looks to me like one of those Beverley Green 
gentlemen,” he said, “name of Wilmot, I think.” 

His employer looked again. 

“Yes, I think it is. Go to him with my compli¬ 
ments, Madding, and ask him if there is anything we 
can do for him. He may have lost something, 
though how he lost it on this part of my estate is 
beyond me.” 

Madding went out, and Mr. Salter resumed his 
game of patience. He looked up to see the stout 
gamekeeper striding across the grounds and returned 
to his cards. When he looked out again he saw 
Madding only; the unauthorised visitor had disap¬ 
peared. 

“Tiresome,” said Mr. Boyd Salter, and, gathering 
up the cards, shuffled and began all over again. 

Some time after— 

“Thank you, Madding. I saw that you had 
missed him.” 

“I found this, sir, a little way beyond where the 


KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 131 


gentleman was searching. I should think it was 
this he was looking for.” 

He held out a gold cigarette case, from which he 
had wiped the yellow mud, for Spring Covert was 
sited in marshland, and got its name from the tiny 
river that had its source in the heart of the wood. 

The Justice took the case in his hand and pressed 
it open. It contained two damp cigarettes and a 
torn scrap of newspaper on which an address had 
been scribbled in pencil. 

“Thank you, Madding. I will see that it is re¬ 
stored to Mr. Wilmot. There are his initials. I 
dare say he will reward you. I hear you trapped a 
stoat yesterday—this morning was it ? Good. 
They are pests with the young birds. Are the birds 
plentiful this year? Good. Thank you, Madding. 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

The gamekeeper stood waiting, and Salter nodded 
to him to go on. 

“About these murders, sir. Eve got an idea that 
the man who did it escaped through the park.” 

“Good heavens! What makes you think so ?” 

“Well, sir, I was out that night looking after 
things. These fellows of Beverley are poaching 
worse than ever. Mr. Golding’s head keeper told 
me only to-day that he’d caught a fellow with six 
brace of pheasants in his bag. Well, sir, I was out 
and wandering about when I heard a shot, down by 
Valley Bottom, so off I went as fast as I could, 
though poachers don’t usually work with guns 


132 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


around here. When I’d gone some way I stopped 
and listened, and I’ll swear I heard somebody walk¬ 
ing on the hard path—the path that goes up to 
Spring Covert, where that gentleman was. I called 
out ‘Hello!’ and then the sound stopped. ‘Come on, 
the game’s up,’ I said, thinking it was a poacher, but 
I never heard another sound, nor saw anybody.” 

“Have you informed the police ? We should have 
done so, Madding. It may be a very important clue. 
Fortunately, Mr. Macleod is coming to see me this 
afternoon.” 

“I didn’t know what to do exactly. As a matter 
of fact, sir, I didn’t connect the shot with the murder 
until I’d talked it over with my wife—a rare head- 
piece my good lady’s got, sir—and she up and said 
‘You must tell the squire.’ ” 

Mr. Boyd Salter smiled. 

“Your wife is an intelligent woman, Madding. 
You had better be around when Mr. Macleod calls. 
I think that that he is coming up the Long Drive,’’ 
he said. “You had better wait.” 

Andy, who had called in connection with the in¬ 
quests, heard the gamekeeper’s story with interest 
and questioned the man as to the time. 

“Madding has also found a cigarette case belong¬ 
ing to Mr. Wilmot,” said Boyd Salter, and related 
the story of Arthur Wilmot’s search. “I tell you 
this, not because it has anything to do with the 
murder—thank you, Madding, you need not wait, 
unless Mr. Macleod has any further questions to ask 
you. No? Thank you, Madding.” 


KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 


133 


Andy was examining the case. 

“How did he come to be near the Covert? Is it 
on a public road?” 

“Nowhere near. He must have been trespassing, 
though I would not use that harsh word about the 
wanderings of a neighbour. Our friends of Bever¬ 
ley Green have a standing invitation to avail them¬ 
selves of the estate for picnics. I expect them to 
give notice to my head gamekeeper, and, of course, 
they never come too near the coverts, and particu¬ 
larly Spring Covert, which is not the most pleasant 
of places.” 

Andy opened the case and took out the scrap of 
paper. 

“An address, I think?” suggested Mr. Boyd Sal¬ 
ter. 

“It is an address—the address of Sweeny,” said 
Andy, “and it was given to Wilmot on the day of 
the murder!” 

He turned over the scrap of paper. 

It had been torn from the edge of a Sunday news- 
sheet and the date line ran: “ . . . unday, 23rd. 
June.” 

Obviously, thought Andy, the newspaper from 
which this scrap had been torn was the property of 
Sweeny. As clearly, the address had been written 
in the morning, because people do not as a rule carry 
about Sunday newspapers in the afternoon. They 
had met and talked, these two men, and, for some 
reason, Wilmot had decided that he had a use for 
Abraham Selim’s clerk and had taken his address. 


134 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


The meeting would hardly have taken place in Spring 
Covert, near where the case had been found, so that 
either they met again after dark, or else, for some 
purpose or other, Wilmot had made a furtive visit 
to the place after nightfall. He accepted the first 
hypothesis as being the more likely. Wilmot was in 
it, then—Wilmot, whose mysterious occupation Mer- 
rivan had discovered, and whose announcement of 
his discovery had cowed his hectoring nephew. 

“What do you think?” asked Boyd Salter. 

“I don’t know. It is curious. I’ll see Wilmot 
and restore his case, if you will allow me.” 

Certain coincidences occurred to him walking back 
to Beverley Green. Every important incident which 
had marked his stay had been in duplicate. He had 
heard the threat of Wilmot and the ravings of Nel¬ 
son from the outside of their houses. There 
were burnings of paper at Merrivan’s and burn¬ 
ings at Nelsons. Now something had been picked 
up- 

“We have found a valuable diamond ring—at 
least Mr. Nelson discovered it when he was walking 
across the green,” were the inspector’s first words. 
“I haven’t heard that any ring has been missing 
from Mr. Merrivan’s house, but nobody in the vil¬ 
lage claims it.” 

Really, Stella was the most careless of suspects! 
She strewed most damning evidence behind her with 
the prodigality of a “hare” in a paper chase. 

“Somebody will claim it,” he said carelessly. 



KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 135 


He overtook Wilmot that night as he was turning 
in at the gate. 

“I think this belongs to you/’ he said, and pro¬ 
duced the case. 

The man went red and white. 

“I don’t think so,” he said loudly. “I haven’t 
lost-” 

“Your monogram is on it,” insisted Andy, “and 
two people have already identified it as yours.” 

This was not exactly the truth. 

“So it is. Thank you, Macleod. I’ve never 
missed it.” 

Andy smiled. 

“You were probably searching Spring Covert for 
something else,” he said, and the last vestige of col¬ 
our left Wilmot’s face. 

“When did you take Sweeny’s address?” 

Wilmot’s eyes blazed his hate of the man who was 
questioning him. This manifestation was so unex¬ 
pected that Andy was momentarily taken aback. 
There could be two causes for such an attitude— 
guilt or jealousy. He fancied that the second reason 
was the real one. He either guessed or knew just 
how Andy felt towards Stella Nelson. 

“I met him on Sunday morning,” said Wilmot 
suddenly. “He came to ask me to recommend him 
for a job. I knew him when he was in my uncle’s 
employ. I met him on the golf course and wrote 
down his address on a piece of newspaper.” 

“You did not tell me or Inspector Dane that you 
had met him.” 



136 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

“I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t forgotten, but I 
did not want to come into this case.” 

“You met him again at night. Why at Spring 
Covert?” 

Wilmot was silent, and the question was repeated. 

“He had been turned away from Beverley Green 
and was anxious to see me. He thought that I 
wouldn’t want to be seen speaking to him.” 

“When did he think this ? In the morning, when 
the second meeting must have been arranged ?” 

“Yes,” reluctantly, and then: “Will you come in, 
Macleod ?” 

“Are you alone?” 

“Yes, quite. Anyway, the servants never come 
into my room unless I send for them, and they are 
out.” 

Arthur Wilmot’s bachelor establishment was the 
smallest house in the village, and it was furnished 
with exceptional taste. If it faulted, it was because 
it was thought too finicky for a man. 

And on a table in the room into which he was 
ushered was a woman’s hat. Wilmot followed the 
direction of the glance and smothered an exclama¬ 
tion. It was a hat in the course of creation—a glit¬ 
tering needle-point, a festoon of coloured silk. 

Their arrival had interrupted somebody, thought 
Andy, and pretended that he had not seen the evi¬ 
dence of anything remarkable. Wilmot was too 
flustered to leave well alone, and must needs explain. 

“One of the servants, I expect,” he said, and flung 
the hat viciously into a corner of the room. 


KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 137 


The incident, which might well have increased his 
embarrassment, seemed to have the opposite effect, 
and his voice was steady when he spoke. 

“I met Sweeny on both occasions, and it was 
stupid of me not to admit it. Sweeny hated my 
uncle, and came to me with a story—at least, with 
the hint of a story that he said would give me a hold 
on Mr. Merrivan. Even now I do not know what 
this great secret was. The second meeting in Spring 
Covert was really to discuss the terms on which 
Sweeny would impart this information. I wish I 
hadn’t gone, and certainly I did not stay very long. 
I had placed myself in a false, and, to say the least, 
an undignified position. I promised to write to him, 
and there the matter ended.” 

“What was this secret of Sweeny’s?” 

Wilmot hesitated. 

“Honestly, I don’t know. The impression I re¬ 
ceived was that Mr. Merrivan was in Selim’s debt 
—Selim was the name of Sweeny’s employer. But 
that, of course, was ridiculous. My uncle was a rich 
man when he died.” 

Andy was silent, pondering the possibilities of this 
story being true. And then : 

“Mr. Wilmot, have you, in your mind, any opin¬ 
ion as to who killed your uncle ?” 

Wilmot’s brown eyes rose. 

“Have you?” he asked. 

Andy knew then the direction in which this man’s 
evidence would run if there came the slightest hint 
of danger to himself. 


138 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“I have many theories,” he answered coolly, “but 
it would be a rash proceeding to pin myself to any 
one of them. Which reminds me, Mr. Wilmot. 
The last time you and I spoke together you talked 
about some worthless girl. That interested me. 
You quarrelled over her, you told me, quarrelled 
with your uncle. That is rather important, you 
know. Who was she ?” 

It was a masterful challenge, well planned, and 
delivered at the most propitious moment. 

Wilmot was not prepared for a question so bru¬ 
tally direct. He knew that Macleod was well aware 
that he had been speaking of Stella Nelson. He 
must speak now or- 

“I am not prepared to say,” was his compromise, 
but Andy had gone too far and risked too much to 
allow his enemy to break off action. 

“You either know such a girl or you do not. 
There was either a quarrel between your uncle and 
yourself or there was no such quarrel. I am speak- 
ing to you as the police officer in charge of these 
investigations and I want the truth.” 

His voice was harsh, menacing. Arthur Wilmot 
was no fighter. 

“I was a little distracted that morning,” he said 
grudgingly, “I didn’t know what I was saying. 
There was no woman and no quarrel.” 

Slowly Andy drew a note-book from his pocket 
and wrote down the words, and the other watched 
him in a cold and growing fury. 



KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 139 

“Thank you,” said Andy. “I won’t trouble you 
again.” 

He went out without another word and left be¬ 
hind him a man who now, at least, had murder in 
his heart. 

“Mr. Macleod!” 

Andy, at the end of the path, turned. Wilmot 
was behind him. 

“I suppose there is no reason why I shouldn’t 
visit the house now. I am my uncle’s heir-at-law 
and there are certain preparations that have to be 
made for his funeral.” 

“The only thing is that for the moment I do not 
want you to go into the long room. I have kept 
that undisturbed until after the inquest.” 

He went across and spoke to the police sergeant in 
charge. 

“It will be quite in order, Mr. Wilmot. I have 
told the sergeant to admit you.” 

Andy took certain phenomena for granted. He 
was neither surprised nor amused to have discovered 
the tell-tale woman’s hat in Wilmot’s room. The 
man’s embarrassment had been as eloquent as his ex¬ 
planation had been feeble. “One of the servants” 
did not quite accord with the statement he had made, 
only a few seconds earlier, that none of Wilmot’s 
household staff ever went into that particular room 
unless they were sent for. Wilmot was a bachelor 
—no better, no worse, perhaps, than the generality 
of well-off bachelors—though it was a little surpris- 

<) 


140 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


ing that he brought his indiscretions to Beverley 
Green, where servants were notorious gossips. Yet 
it did not seem quite like Arthur Wilmot. 

He called at the Nelsons. He would have gone 
there every day and remained all day if his own 
wishes governed. As it was, he usually consulted 
Scottie in the early hours of the morning, usually 
in the very centre of the village green. 

Stella received him. Her father was in the studio 
working against the failing light and the girl was en¬ 
thusiastic, for Kenneth Nelson had started a new 
picture, and the obliging Scottie was his principal 
model. 

“It will be useful to have a real good picture of 
Scottie available,” said Andy heartlessly. “When 
I want him in the future, I’ll send my hounds to the 
Academy to study him.” 

“But he’ll never do wrong again,” said she, horri¬ 
fied at the thought. “He was telling me that he 
had given up his old life and that nothing would ever 
tempt him to steal.” 

Andy smiled. 

“I shall be glad if he does,” he said, and changed 
the topic. “Do you know Arthur Wilmot very well, 
Stella?” 

Her impulse was to say very well. 

“I thought I did. Evidently I don’t. Why?” 

“Do you know whether he has any girl friends or 
relations ?” 

She shook her head. 

“The only relation I know was his uncle and a 


KEEPER WHO HEARD SHOT 141 


very old aunt. Do you mean, does he have people 
staying with him? Fve never known him to enter¬ 
tain people except the aunt, whom I think is dead 
now. He doesn’t ever have bachelor parties. 
Why?” 

“I wondered,” he said, and she smiled, but became 
serious instantly. 

“I don’t know what is happening. Have you 
found any—any clue ? The place has been crowded 
with reporters. One of them came here and asked 
me if I could give him any details about Mr. Mer- 
rivan’s daily life. Did he go to church, was he a 
quiet man, and things like that. I told him I didn’t 
know much about him. He was easily satisfied.” 

Andy drew a long breath. 

“Thank heaven Downer wasn’t amongst them. 
Who is Downer? He is a reporter, the toughest 
of the whole bunch, and not as easily satisfied as 
your caller. And he wouldn’t have asked such crude 
questions. He’d have talked art to your father, 
and been in the studio admiring Pygmalion and dis¬ 
cussing colour values and atmosphere and move¬ 
ment and all the other jargon of the studio—and 
when he had gone he would have left you with an 
uneasy feeling that you had said much more than 
you ought to have said, not about old masters, but 
Mr. Merrivan’s private life.” 

She never took her eyes from his face when he 
was speaking. For his part, he never looked too 
long at her, for fear he would gather her into his 
arms and not let her go. 


142 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“You must know an awful lot of people. I don’t 
mean that they’re ‘awful’—I mean—you know what 
I mean. I had no idea you were like you are. The 
man Downer, for instance, and people like the pro¬ 
fessor—Scottie. I called him ‘Scottie’ quite inad¬ 
vertently and he seemed tremendously pleased. 
There is nothing new?” 

“Except that Dane found your ring. Do you 
usually scatter diamond rings over the countryside?” 

She was not at all perturbed. 

“I threw it away, I don’t remember where. Are 
you going? You have only been here a minute and 
you haven’t seen father or the picture.” 

“I have been here long enough to scandalise the 
neighbourhood,” he said. “Do you realise that I 
cannot visit you unless I call on almost everybody on 
some excuse or other? I make myself a nuisance 
a dozen times a day in order—well, to see you.” 

She went with him to the door. 

“I wish you’d come and dust the hall-room again,” 
she said softly. 

“And I—I wish we were at the second golf hut,” 
he said fervently. 

She laughed. He heard the sound of it as he 
went down the path. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


THE BED DRAWER 

It was no exaggeration to say that since his uncle’s 
death Arthur Wilmot had lived under a strain that 
he thought at times would drive him mad. Neither 
his character nor his training fitted him for the or¬ 
deal through which he was passing. He had inher¬ 
ited from his mother, a highly-strung, nervous 
> woman, that weakness of resistance which had made 
a surrender to the emotions of the moment seem 
natural and proper. Restraint, other than the re¬ 
straint imposed by fear, he no more applied to the 
inclinations of maturity than he had to the tantrums 
of childhood. That Stella for one had not known 
him in his true character was entirely due to his con¬ 
fidence that the friendship between them would, in 
his own time, develop as he might direct. She did 
not know that their relationship had progressed on 
his side with the greatest caution. If in its earlier 
and longer period he had not given her the slightest 
hint that he was in love with her, it was because he 
had consciously avoided the compromising of his 
life. He thought he was acting “fairly.” He told 
himself as much. He honestly believed that in the 
course of their friendship she had offered him cer- 

143 


144 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


tain opportunities for guiding their relationship into 
a closer one, and when he had at last decided that she 
was made for him, and he had, in carefully chosen 
words, explained his intentions, her prompt refusal 
came in the nature of a thunderbolt from a clear sky. 

His vanity did not allow him to believe that her 
answer was final. He treated her rejection lightly, 
knowing (and saying) that women are a little per¬ 
verse and illogical on such occasions. After a 
further rejection it pleased him to assume an attitude 
of gentle resignation, a role which enabled him to 
return to the subject without any violent interruption 
of their intercourse. 

Then came the tremendous moment when he had 
attempted to carry by assault all that he had failed 
to win by patience and blandishment. And the lash 
of her tongue, her studied contempt, her sheer in¬ 
difference to his fine feelings, had produced the effect 
which high and unscalable peaks have upon moun¬ 
taineers. Whether he loved her or hated her was 
not important; he loved himself very dearly, and, 
seeing himself robbed of something he desired, he 
gave to its object so great a value that life without 
its attainment seemed not worth while. 

The coming of Andy Macleod, the frequent visits 
he paid to the Nelsons, the gossip that ran from 
servant to servant, these pushed him to the border¬ 
line of dementia. And to this was added the burden 
of his uncle’s death and the knowledge that suspicion 
might attach to himself. Third of the causes of his 
agony of mind was the uncertainty of his own ma- 


THE BED DRAWER 


145 


terial future. His uncle had financed him. What 
provision had he made for him in his will? Was 
there a will at all? He had been called into con¬ 
sultation both with Mr. Merrivan’s lawyer and with 
Inspector Dane, and no mention had been made of 
the discovery of such a document. Arthur was 
asked by both whether he knew of any safe deposit 
or other hiding-place where papers might be hidden. 
He had said “No,” yet once his uncle, in an expan¬ 
sive moment, had taken him into his bedroom 
and showed him such a place as the police were 
seeking. 

When he asked Dane or Andy whether “anything 
had been found,” he had this in his mind. It was 
strange that Darius Merrivan should have shown 
it to him at all. They were not intimates, and Ar¬ 
thur often wondered why his uncle should have made 
such generous advances to him for investment in a 
business, the nature of which he never asked. That 
was the curious thing—Darius never asked, and once, 
when Arthur Wilmot, a little shamefaced, was on 
the point of advancing information, the elder man 
had cut him short. 

He had never asked for interest or mentioned the 
money, and this circumstance had been the basis of 
his belief that Merrivan intended leaving his con¬ 
siderable fortune to him on his death. 

His uncle had once asked him to keep secret the 
fact that he was married. But he would hardly 
have paid so heavily for a silence which the request 
of a relation would impose, particularly as the man- 


146 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


ner in which the marriage had ended had been so 
scandalous. 

Arthur Wilmot waited until he saw Andy vanish 
into the hedges towards Nelsons, then crossed over 
to his uncle’s house. 

“Mr. Macleod said that you might be coming over, 
Mr. Wilmot,” said the sergeant. “I suppose he told 
you that he doesn’t want you to go into the long 
room ?” 

Wilmot nodded and passed up the stairs. 

Three of Mr. Merrivan’s servants had been sent 
home. They were all natives of Beverley and were 
available for the inquest. Two others Arthur had 
taken into his own establishment. They refused to 
sleep in the murder house, though they worked there 
during the day. 

He went straight to Merrivan’s bedroom. At any 
moment Andy could learn that he had taken imme¬ 
diate advantage of the permission and might return 
to supervise his search. He stood at the open door 
listening to make sure that the sergeant had not fol¬ 
lowed him up, then, crossing the room, he knelt at 
the foot of the bed. He gripped the carved rose that 
marked the juncture of the sides with the stout foot- 
post and screwed it quickly to the left. There was a 
click, he tugged, and a shield-shaped drawer came 
out. There were a number of papers, a small roll of 
banknotes fastened about with a rubber band, and a 
flat case containing a paper of some kind. He 
pushed them into his inside pocket, closed the 
drawer, and turned the carved rose. Was there an- 


THE BED DRAWER 


147 


other drawer behind the shield on the second foot- 
post? He walked to the door and listened. Down 
below he heard the sergeant sneeze and went back to 
the bed. But here rose and shield were immovable. 
They were part of the solid embellishments of the 
furniture. He was trembling violently, anxious to 
get back to his own room, and yet fearful that his 
agitation would be visible to the observant police 
officer. 

Looking in a mirror, he saw that his face was 
chalk-like in its pallor, and rubbed his cheeks vigor¬ 
ously. To give himself time to recover his compo¬ 
sure he went from room to room, and at last de¬ 
scended the stairs, his knees shivering. 

‘‘Find anything, sir?” The sergeant, sitting in 
the hall in a comfortable arm-chair, looked up from 
his newspaper. 

“Nothing at all. I am afraid I am a little over¬ 
come by the-” . 

The quaver in his voice was not assumed. 

“I quite understand, sir,” said the sympathetic 
policeman. “This is my first murder case in twenty 
years’ service. Mr. Macleod is used to ’em, being a 
doctor, too. Lord! The cold-blooded way he talks 
of things gives me the creeps!” 

Arthur locked the door of his room when he got 
in, pulled down the blinds, and switched on the 
lights. Then he emptied the contents of his pocket. 
It only needed a glance to see that a will was not one 

of his finds, unless- He pulled out the folded 

paper which the leather case held. It was a certifi- 



148 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


cate of marriage. His uncle’s? No, it certified the 
marriage of Hilda Masters, her occupation described 
as parlourmaid, with John Severn, student. The 
marriage was thirty years old. Arthur was puzzled. 
Why had his uncle taken the trouble to preserve the 
evidence of a serving maid’s marriage? He read 
the document carefully, thinking he might find some 
clue. It had been celebrated at St. Paul’s Church, 
Marylebone, London, and his uncle did not figure in 
the document, even as a witness. Yet this certificate 
must have possessed an exceptional value to the dead 
man. All thoughts of the will were driven from his 
mind by the discovery he made when he examined 
the next of his finds. 

They were two bills of exchange, one for seven 
hundred and another for three hundred, drawn in 
favour of Abraham Selim, and were signed by Ken¬ 
neth Nelson. He turned them over for the signa¬ 
ture of the acceptor, and found, as he had expected, 
the name of his uncle. 

The two bills were pinned together, and attached 
was a slip of paper, and in Merrivan’s handwriting: 
“These acceptances are forgeries. Due 24th. of 
June.” 

Forgeries! Wilmot’s eyes narrowed. Did Stella 
know? Was that the reason she had gone to Darius 
Merrivan’s house on the night of the 23rd.? She 
knew! That was the hold Merrivan had over her. 
That was why he was so sure that she would marry 
him. In some mad, drunken moment Kenneth 
Nelson, hard-pressed for money, had given two 


THE BED DRAWER 


149 

bills with forged acceptances into Merrivan’s pos¬ 
session. 

He whistled softly. He could not take it in yet. 
Idly he examined the money. It was for a very 
large sum, and he breathed more quickly as he put 
it into his own note-case. Here was something at 
any rate. A' legacy, and not inconsiderable. The 
other papers were long lists of securities. His uncle 
had written a beautiful copperplate, and they were 
easy to follow. Against each line was a letter. 
These could wait. He locked them and the certifi¬ 
cate in a wall safe, and devoted his evening to specu¬ 
lations. 

At half-past ten he went out. The summer after¬ 
glow still lingered in the sky; the night was very 
still. He could hear voices from a garden on the 
far side of the green. 

The lights were burning in Stella’s hall. He must 
risk meeting Andrew Macleod; more than this, must 
risk the enquiries which would start at the point 
where he produced the bills of exchange. 

Stella was alone, however. She blocked the door¬ 
way when she recognised the caller. 

“Can I see you, Stella? I won’t keep you very 
long.” 

“You can see me now, Mr. Wilmot,” she said, 
“and I hope you will be very brief.” 

“I cannot tell you here,” he said, checking his 
sudden anger, “unless you want everybody to hear 
what I am saying.” 

]But she was adamantine. 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


150 

“I can’t ask you in. I’m being unusually kind 
in speaking to you at all.” 

“Oh, you are, are you?” he said furiously. “Per¬ 
haps you’ll think I’m unusually kind, too, before I’m 
finished!” 

She tried to close the door upon him, but he was 
too quick for her. His foot was an immovable 
wedge. 

She was angry now. 

“I shall call my father,” she said. 

“Do,” he returned. “I’d like him to identify 
my uncle’s signature on two bills of exchange drawn 
in favour of Abraham Selim.” 

He did not hear through his own speech the gasp¬ 
ing intake of her breath, but the pressure on the door 
suddenly relaxed. She had fallen back against the 
wall, her hands at her side, her head drooped. 

“Come in,” she said huskily. 

Arthur Wilmot entered victoriously. He waited 
until she moved into the hall-room, then he followed 
and put his Homburg hat on the table with the air 
of one who was taking possession of her very soul. 

She sat down and looked across at him. The 
table lamp was between them, and its shade hid her 
eyes, but he saw her quivering mouth and swelled 
with gratification. 

“Your father forged the name of the acceptor,” 
he said, dispensing with the preamble he had planned. 

“May I see the—the things?” she asked. 

He unfolded them on the table. 

“Yes, they were like those,” she said listlessly. 


THE BED DRAWER 


151 

“I don’t know very much about these things, but 
they looked like—I suppose the two I took were— 
dummies. He manufactured them just to fool me. 

I thought they were real.” 

“You went to see him on Sunday night?” he ac¬ 
cused. “I saw you go in, I saw you come flying out. 
You went to get those bills. He gave you fakes.” 

He asked her a question which made her feel phys¬ 
ically ill. He was so foul, so foul! 

“Then you stole them, but the old man fooled you! 
Of course he fooled you. You don’t suppose that 
he’d allow you to get the better of him? What are 
you going to do about it ?” 

She did not answer. 

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You are 
going to be sensible and marry me. This damned 
detective doesn’t mean anything. He is only a po¬ 
liceman. You’ve got some self-respect left, haven’t 
you? You’re soiled by knowing a man like that. 
I’ll give you these as a wedding present. There will 
be trouble if you don’t! These are legally mine; 
now. I inherit my uncle’s bad debts, and I’ll put 
Mr. Kenneth Nelson where he belongs. I can do it. 
Look! My uncle wrote on this paper, ‘These accept¬ 
ances are forgeries.’ That is all the evidence that 
is required. Stella!” 

He came round the table towards her with out¬ 
stretched hands, but she had risen from her chair 
and was backing away from him. 

“All right. Sleep on it. I’ll come to you to¬ 
morrow. You can’t tell Macleod without telling 


152 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


him that your father’s a thief. He couldn’t stomach 
that. He’s done his best to keep you out of mis¬ 
chief, but he’d have to move against your father. 
Be sensible, Stella.” 

He stood at the door, peering towards the shad¬ 
ows where she stood. When he closed the door 
he was smiling. Smiling, he reached out to pull 
open the gate, and a big hand came suddenly over 
his mouth and he was pulled violently backwards. 
Before he could understand what had happened, 
somebody was gripping his throat with one hand and 
searching his pocket with the other. 

Then he was jerked to his feet, and he saw the 
fierce gleam of spectacled eyes. 

“You talk about this and you’re in trouble—hell- 
sure! Go and tell Macleod. He’ll search your 
house to-night. Where did you get those bills any¬ 
way? And what else did you get?” 

“Give me back those—papers,” quavered Wilmot. 

Scottie grinned unpleasantly. 

“Go, tell the police,” he said, “and see if they can 
get ’em back.” 

Arthur Wilmot went home. He was no fighter. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


THE INQUEST 

“A good deed,” said Scottie sententiously, “brings 
its own reward, and I am merely acting in con¬ 
sonance with all the high-class literature I ve read, 
dealing with reformed criminals. Pm not sure that 
‘consonance’ is the word, but it sounds right. In 
my last prison they ran a line of fiction dealing ex¬ 
clusively with the good deeds of old lags that had 
been saved from a life of shame and misery by the 
smile of a child. Sometimes she was the governor’s 
daughter and sometimes the chaplain’s sister, and 
her age varied from nine to nineteen. But she was 
always rescued from drowning by the hook—gen¬ 
erally when he was on his way to commit an even 
more hideous crime. And the memory of her blue 
eyes turned him from his career, and he lived hap¬ 
pily ever after. The end!” 

“You’re only—talking—to stop me—from get¬ 
ting hysterical,” gasped Stella. 

There was a new litter of ashes on the hearth; 
they still smoked. 

“You shouldn’t have burnt the pin,” said Scottie, 
and picking it out, hot as it was, thrust it into the 
edge of his waistcoat. “Burnt paper is just burnt 


154 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 



paper, but supposing Wilk does run to the police 
and tells a story of two bills that were pinned to¬ 
gether, and suppose they find the burnt pin—well, 
that would look as if he were telling the truth, and I 
should hate that.” \ 

“You heard everything?” she said, dabbing her 
eyes. 

“Mostly,” confessed Scottie. “I was in the gar¬ 
den when he was talking to you on the step. And 
he left the front door open, so I heard—most of the 
things. That man isn’t, from a professional point 
of view, a crook. It would take five years’ hard 
learning to make him anything like a professional. 
He’s all nerves. And he’s talkative. Everybody 
round here is that way. You’re looking at me, 
Miss Nelson, with a sort of doubtful expression. 
Perhaps you think I’m in that class, too. I am, 
but my conversation is backed by knowledge. I 
admit it. You can’t go round the world as I’ve 
been, all through Canada and the United States, 
Australia, to South Africa, and the islands, without 
acquiring knowledge which an occasional sojourn in 
jug helps you to consolidate.” 

“I’m going up to my room, Mr.—Scottie. I 
haven’t thanked you, have I ? I must tell Mr. Mac- 
leod.” 

Scottie shook his head violently. 

“You mustn’t do that, miss. It would put him in 
a hole. My experience of the police has taught me 
two things—what they want to know and what they 


THE INQUEST 155 

don’t want to know. It is fatal to make a mistake 
on either side.” 

He was right. She hadn’t the strength to argue. 
This last shock had exhausted her reserves. She 
just wanted to go away and be quiet. She did not 
give another thought to Arthur Wilmot. He was 
with the ashes on the hearth. 

'‘Good-night and thank you.” 

“Pleasant dreams,” said Scottie, and did not look 
up from the book he was reading until she was gone. 

Then he carefully brushed up the ashes of paper, 
carried them to the kitchen, and mixed them in a 
glass with water. This he poured away, and 
washed and dried the glass. 

“Would that one’s past could be washed away 
as easily,” said Scottie poetically. 

There came to Beverley Green the next morning, 
and long after the vanguard of the reporting army 
had struck their tents, a clever, middle-aged news¬ 
paper man who was attached to no particular journal, 
but had the entree to all. He was in the most exact 
sense a gleaner of news, for he found his harvest 
among the stubble—tiny ears of news thinly scat¬ 
tered. Sometimes his gleaning gave him a poor 
return for his labour, but often the yield dwarfed 
the hastily-gathered sheaf of the earlier harvester. 

He had the true news conscience, which means 
that all things were subservient to the truth, who¬ 
ever was hurt or whatever interests were jeopardised 


156 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


by the telling. His methods presented the problem 
in ethics over which the metaphysician and the 
moralist have for ever disagreed. To secure the 
truth he would lie and cheat, and, if necessary, steal. 
He would betray a confidence as light-heartedly as 
he would order his breakfast. The solemn pledge 
to observe secrecy was part of his equipment. The 
majority of his fellows—more honest men—despised 
him, and made no secret of their dislike. But they 
admitted that he was a great news man, and ex¬ 
pressed their wishes that they too had been born 
without a sense of decency. 

He was a short, coarse-featured man, who wore 
powerful pince-nez and who smoked cigars from 
getting up to lying down. Normally, he looked bad- 
tempered and discontented, and was, in consequence, 
spoken of as “repulsive.” He could be almost any¬ 
thing that complimented his vis-a-vis, and in this 
quality lay his power, and, for the victim, his danger. 

It is on record that he talked theology to the 
Bishop of Grinstead for three hours and never made 
a false move, before the bishop, by way of illustrat¬ 
ing some point, told him the inside story of the Rev. 
Stoner Jelph and why he resigned his living. Of 
course, the bishop did not mention Mr. Jelph by 
name. He was, in the simple prelate’s argument, 
a hypothetical X. But Downer (which was the re¬ 
porter’s name) had the story, and printed it. He 
did not mention names either, but he left no doubt 
as to who he was writing about. 


THE INQUEST 


157 


Andy was the first to see Downer arrive. He had 
been expecting his advent ever since the day of the 
murder. The reporter came straight to him. 

“Good-morning, Macleod. I thought I would see 
you before I made any independent enquiries. I 
always say that it is not fair to the man in charge 
of the case to start nosing without telling him first. 
Very often a reporter does a deuce of a lot of harm 
that way. I think I’ve got the main facts. Is there 
any new development?” 

Andy offered him his cigar case. 

“I’m glad you’ve come, Downer, but you’re rather 
late. No, there is nothing new.” 

“No fresh clues of any description? Who is this 
Abraham Selim you are after? I seem to know 
the name.” 

“He is your story, Downer,” said Andy, pulling 
at his cigar and watching the other from under his 
drooped lids. “All the other men have missed it. 
And we’ve missed Selim.” 

“Great. Maybe this is the best place to get hold 
of his tail. You can trust me, Macleod. I’ll not 
go barging into your lines. I’m too much of a fisher 
myself.” 

It would be inaccurate to say that Downer was 
afraid of Andy. He was not afraid of a hill of 
dynamite, but he would not have chosen its crest 
as a place for a quiet smoke. He respected him, 
and, if possible, avoided him. Andy was the only 
man he knew who could and would engage in an 


158 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


intelligent vendetta against him if he were crossed. 
Downer respected the capability of this antagonist. 
Nevertheless: 

“You have Four-Eyed Scottie here, they tell me. 
He got past with an alibi on some charge or other?” 

“He is here now,” said Andy. “Some friends of 
mine are giving him house-room.” 

“You think he has a string to the story?” said 
Downer, nodding. “Possibly. He is a sharp boy 
and I'll give him a miss. I don’t believe in interfer¬ 
ing with regular police witnesses. I’ll be getting 
along.” 

Andy watched him as he loafed aimlessly in the 
direction of Merrivan’s house. He had been frank 
about Scottie, knowing that Downer would find out 
sooner or later. Therein he had been wise, for the 
reporter had visited Beverley Green the night before, 
and had trailed Scottie to his home. Mentally rul¬ 
ing out Scottie as a source of sensation, Downer 
made his leisurely way to the house. Ten minutes 
later he was discussing with the fascinated sergeant 
the slowness of promotion in the county police. 

The inquest was held that afternoon, and the little 
court was crowded to its fullest capacity. 

Andy saw Mr. Boyd Salter in a privileged seat 
near the coroner and the Justice beckoned him for¬ 
ward. 

“I have brought Madding, the gamekeeper, 
down,” he said. “His evidence may be of value as 
to fixing the time the murder occurred. I have 
been trying to get you further particulars about 


THE INQUEST 


159 


Abraham Selim. He seems to have begun his oper¬ 
ations about thirty-five years ago, somewhere in the 
west. A very old friend of mine, who of course 
does not want his name mentioned, had some deal¬ 
ings with him when he was a young man at college. 
He never saw Selim and never knew anybody who 
did. Selim seems to have come to town twenty-five 
years ago and to have established a profitable connec¬ 
tion amongst shipping men, exporters, and agents, 
about whose financial position he had an extraordi¬ 
nary knowledge. I am afraid that is all I know/’ 

Andy thanked him and went back to his seat. 

Shippers! Who were shippers? He had been 
in an agent’s office lately, and then he remembered 
with a start—Wentworth & Wentworth, the decay¬ 
ing firm whose offices were next door to Abraham 
•Selim. It might only be a coincidence, but it was 
well worth a second investigation, he decided, as he 
settled himself down to the swearing-in of the jury. 

His own evidence followed that of Mr. Arthur 
Wilmot, who had identified his uncle and who had 
seen him on the night of the murder. 

The butler followed him to the witness stand and 
told the story he had already told to a dozen report¬ 
ers and to Andy. 

The question which was exercising Mr. Andrew 
Macleod was whether Arthur Wilmot would be re¬ 
called to testify as to the names of his uncle’s women 
friends. No question had been asked him on this 
point when he had been giving his evidence. The 
coroner made no special point of the woman’s voice, 


160 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

but seemed much more interested in the incident of 
the letter. The butler pointed out on a sketch-map 
exactly where the letter had been found, and how he 
had picked it up and placed it mechanically under 
Merrivan’s other papers. 

“Had it been folded or was it open ?” 

The butler was not sure. He thought it was half¬ 
open when he picked it up. 

“Had an envelope been discovered?” 

Here Andy was recalled, and stated that after a 
very careful search no envelope was found. This 
had seemed strange to Andy at the time. The letter 
was undated, and it might have been delivered earlier 
in the day. 

“Did you discover anything that would lead you to 
believe that Mr. Merrivan was in fear of his life?” 

“I found a loaded revolver,” said Andy. “It was 
in a cupboard behind the desk and was in easy reach 
of his hand. It had not been discharged or 
touched.” 

(He had found this weapon after Scottie had de¬ 
scribed to him the location of the cupboard.) 

The policeman who had first seen the body, Mr. 
Vetch, the dead man’s lawyer, Madding, the game- 
keeper, Merrivan’s cook and his hysterical house¬ 
maid, who gave yet another exhibition of her weak¬ 
ness in this direction and had to be carried out of 
court, and the calling of Inspector Dane, concluded 
the proceedings; and the inquest seemed well through 
when the coroner, who was a fussy old gentleman 


THE INQUEST 


161 


with a defective memory, looked up from the papers 
he was examining, and: 

“Dr. Macleod, I’d like to recall you again. 
There is a point here which does not seem to be 
cleared up. It is in relation to the woman whose 
voice was heard by the butler.” 

Andy walked calmly to his place. 

“There is a newspaper report to the effect that 
you saw a woman leaving Mr. Merrivan’s house at 
eleven o’clock, and she passed under your window 
at the guest house, on her way apparently to Bever¬ 
ley. Usually,” said the coroner, “I do not take 
much notice of newspaper reports, but here it is dis¬ 
tinctly stated in an interview with you by one of the 
reporters, and I do not remember any reference to 
the incident having been made in the course of this 
enquiry.” 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 

It was a novel experience for Andrew Macleod to 
find himself standing up in a court of law commit¬ 
ting wilful perjury. He could hardly believe that it 
was he who was speaking so calmly. 

“Yes,” he said, “I saw the door of Merrivan’s 
house open, and a little while after I saw a woman 
coming across the green.” 

“At what time was this ?” 

“Eleven o’clock. The fact is, the clock of Bever¬ 
ley Church was striking eleven as she passed.” 

“You could not distinguish her features?” 

“No, your honour; the moon was obscured that 
night.” 

That concluded the evidence, and the jury retired. 
They returned in half an hour with a verdict of wil¬ 
ful murder against Abraham Selim. They had been 
practically directed to that verdict by the coroner. 

Downer had not come to court. Andy had looked 
round in search of him, but he was neither at the 
reporters’ table nor in the body of the little hall 
where the inquest was held. 

He stopped to chat a moment with Mr. Boyd 
Salter and a representative of the Public Prosecu- 

162 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 


163 

tor’s department, and then he walked back to the 
village, having very much the same state of mind 
towards Mr. Downer as Stella had had towards him 
on the first day they had met. 

He walked so slowly that Merrivan’s lawyer was 
able to overtake him. 

“The story about Mr. Merrivan being in the 
clutches of a moneylender is nonsense,” said that 
gentleman, whose name was Vetch. “Mr. Merrivan 
was a rich man.” 

“Did he leave a will? You did not mention that 
in your evidence,” said Andy. 

“None has been discovered,” said the other, shak¬ 
ing his head. “The estate will go to Mr. Wilmot 
unless a nearer relative turns up.” 

Andy wondered how much truth there was in the 
story that Merrivan was married. A search had 
been made of the marriage registers, but no trace of 
such a marriage had been unearthed. 

“You described Merrivan as a merchant. What 
does that mean exactly? In what particular branch 
of merchandise did he trade?” 

Mr. Vetch shook his head. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea. He was very reti¬ 
cent about his business affairs and did not come to 
us until he had retired. I have an idea he was in the 
tea trade.” 

“What makes you think that?” asked Andy 
quickly. 

“He was rather fastidious about tea. I think it 
was the only commodity in his household in which 


i64 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


he took the slightest interest. Often when I have 
been up at his house and the tea has been brought in, 
he has asked me what I thought of it, very much as 
a man who is a connoisseur of wines would ask you 
to pass an opinion on some old port.” 

They had turned into Beverley Green road when 
they came in sight of a man who was strolling in the 
same direction. 

“Isn’t that a reporter, a man named Downer? 
I saw him this morning. A very intelligent fellow,” 
said Vetch. “We discussed that new judgment in 
the High Court on the liability of agents. He seems 
very well read in law.” 

“In everything,” said Andy grimly. “I suppose 
he didn’t ask you anything about Merrivan’s private 
affairs?” 

“If he had I shouldn’t have told him,” said the 
lawyer. “I am too old a bird to be caught discuss¬ 
ing my clients’ affairs. The only subject we did dis¬ 
cuss was quite innocuous—the cost of living!” 

“In what respect?” asked Andy curiously. 

“He was suggesting that it must have cost Mer- 
rivan a lot of money to run that house. It hadn’t 
occurred to me to check his expenditure, but I did 
then. Of course, I didn’t show him the bills.” 

“If you had the bills on the table you showed them 
to him,” said Andy. “That fellow can read upside 
down. Was there any especial bill—any exception¬ 
ally heavy bill amongst them?” 

“One for £130,” said the lawyer. “It wasn’t ex¬ 
actly a bill, but a memorandum written in Mr. Mer- 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 165 

rivan s hand—‘Stelling Bros., £130/ What it was 
for I do not know. Who are Stellings?” 

Andy did not enlighten him. 

Stellings were the biggest jewellers in town, and 
that memorandum which the methodical Mr. Merri- 
van had jotted down, probably after he had de¬ 
stroyed the bill, was the price of the diamond cluster 
he had purchased in anticipation of his easy con¬ 
quest. 

By this time they were within earshot of Downer, 
and Andy discreetly changed the subject. 

“No, I didn’t come to the inquest,” said Downer. 
“I had one or two calls to make, and inquests bore 
me anyway. Nothing came out, I suppose?” 

“Nothing that would enlighten us and which is 
not already published,” said Andy. 

At this point the lawyer left them. He had to 
settle accounts with Merrivan’s household. 

“Has anything come out about a diamond cluster 
Merrivan bought four or five days before his 
death?” asked Downer, slashing at the grass with 
his walking-stick, and apparently interested in noth¬ 
ing more than the decapitation of a daisy. “I think 
it must have been the ring that the inspector found 
on the green,” he went on. “Queer thing, old Mer¬ 
rivan buying a diamond cluster and then chucking it 
away. It looks almost as if he bought it for some¬ 
body who hated him so much that as soon as she 
got out of the house—say at about eleven o’clock 
at night—she pulled it off her finger and threw it 
as far away from her as she could.” 


166 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“That idea occurred to me also,” said Andy. 
“The woman who passed under my window may 
have done almost anything between the time she 
walked out of Merrivan’s house and the time she 
came into view.” 

There was a silence, and then: 

“There was a policeman on duty at this end of 
Beverley High Street,” said Downer. “He was 
waiting outside a house. A servant had brought 
him out some coffee, and he was chatting to her from 
eleven to half-past. Nobody passed from eleven 
until twenty minutes after.” 

He was still engaged in decapitating wild flowers 
and did not once look at Andy. 

“She may have gone another way. There are 
two ends to the road,” said Andy. 

Another silence, and then Downer went on mo¬ 
notonously : 

“A cyclist policeman started out at ten minutes to 
eleven from Hylton Cross Roads—that’s the other 
end of the road—and pedalled into Beverley. He 
saw nobody until he came up to the policeman who 
was talking to the servant. He had a bright acety¬ 
lene lamp in the front of his machine, and the road 
is fairly narrow. She couldn’t even have hidden in 
the shadow of a hedge, could she?” 

“It is a curious case altogether,” agreed Andy. 
“The woman may have retraced her footsteps after 
I went away from the window. I went to bed a 
little later.” 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 


167 


“You mean, she may have gone back to Merri- 
van’s?” Downer raised his eyes. “Gone back after 
she had thrown away her ring?” 

“She may have lost it, that is an explanation,” 
said Andy, “and, discovering her loss, may have 
gone back to look for it.” 

“The ring was found near the road,” persisted 
the indefatigable Downer. “She either threw it 
away or else she didn’t come straight across the 
green, as you said. The centre of the green is about 
eighty-five yards from the place where the ring was 
found.” 

“Eighty-six,” said Andy gravely, and Downer 
laughed. 

“I agree with you that there is not much in the 
woman incident,” he said. “These elderly men have 
queer friends. She was probably some slut from 
the village.” 

He fixed the detective with his eyes, but Andy did 
not flinch. This man knew. How he knew— 
whether it was clever deduction or information re¬ 
ceived—he did not bother to speculate upon. 

“I don’t think we ought to take away Merrivan’s 
character,” he said. “The man lived a very whole¬ 
some life, so far as we know.” 

“She didn’t commit the murder,” said Downer 
with conviction, “but she ought to be cleared up. 
Scottie busy?” he asked abruptly, and Andy laughed. 

“Very. He is temporarily a reformed character. 
I believe he is posing for Mr. Nelson, an artist who 


168 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


lives in these parts. But I needn’t tell you anything 
about him, Downer. A sleuth like you will have 
his biography at his finger-tips.” 

“He has gone in for a course of reformation him¬ 
self, hasn’t he?” said Downer. “Yes, I’ve made en¬ 
quiries in the ordinary way of business. A very 
charming girl, Miss Nelson.” 

“Very,” agreed Andy, “a very charming girl.” 

Downer nodded. 

“I suppose she is very upset about the murder. 
She was a friend of Mr. Merrivan’s, wasn’t she? 
He lent her £300 about nine months ago. Of 
course,” he added apologetically, “that is no busi¬ 
ness of mine or yours. And it is not a very terrible 
thing for a lady to borrow money from a man old 
enough to be her father.” 

This was indeed news to Andy, but he knew that 
Downer was not speaking at random. 

“How did you get to know that ?” he asked. 

“I forget who told me,” said Downer with a yawn. 
“So long. I’ll see you later.” 

One of his own men had come down to help him 
prepare a report on the crime, and to him Andy 
gave an urgent commission. 

“Go into the town and find out whether Downer 
was here last night and whom he saw. He probably 
stayed at the Beverley Hotel.” 

Andy’s surmise was not far from the mark. Mr. 
Downer had arrived on the evening train, and he 
had as a guest to dinner a clerk of the Micham 
Farmers Bank. 


( 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 169 

“He is some sort of relation of Downer’s,” re¬ 
ported the detective on the telephone. “The clerk 
hasn’t been in Beverley very long.” 

“And he won’t be much longer,” said Andy 
grimly. 

That was obviously the source of Downer’s in¬ 
formation. The fact that his relative would cer¬ 
tainly be fired if he had betrayed the secrets of the 
bank meant no more to Mr. Downer than if a similar 
misfortune had overtaken his worst enemy. 

Money was under discussion in the Nelson house¬ 
hold that afternoon. Mr. Nelson came in from his 
study wearing his long white coat, and the girl had 
expected him. He had been very quiet all the morn¬ 
ing, hardly spoke at lunch, and she was a little appre¬ 
hensive, because these signs of an unquiet spirit 
usually had only one consequence. 

He shut the door leading into the passage which 
connected with the studio and then went back to 
make sure that it was shut. 

“Stella,” he said, “I woke rather early this morn¬ 
ing and I did a lot of thinking. Do you remember 
that money we borrowed from poor Merrivan, or, 
rather, that you borrowed ?” 

She nodded. 

“Did we ever pay it back?” 

She nodded again. 

“Where did you get the money to pay it back? 
I remember that I was in a tremendous hole when I 
sent you to get it.” 

She did not-reply. 


170 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“It was £300, wasn’t it ?” 

“Yes, father,” she said quietly. 

“Where the dickens did we get £300 to pay* him 
back? You are sure we did pay him?” 

“Oh, yes, father,” she said. “I have the receipt.” 

He sat down and for a long time examined his 
nails, his forehead knit. 

“Eve only the vaguest idea about it,” he said. 
“It comes to me like scraps of a dream. But was 
the repayment made during that”—he hesitated— 
“that horrible week I gave you ?” 

He had not over-described those seven days of 
mental torture, during which he had never once ap¬ 
peared in the house wholly sober. 

“I got hold of a lot of money just about then, 
didn’t I? Where did I get it from?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

He started drumming his fingers on the table nerv¬ 
ously, irritatingly. 

“It is strange,” he said. “I invariably associate 
that time with some unpleasant happening—some¬ 
thing that makes my blood run cold—and I don’t 
know what it is. Of course, it may be just a realisa¬ 
tion of my beastliness, but I can’t think it was that. 
I did not do anything particularly outrageous, did 
I?” 

“No, father,” she said. The consequence of his 
outrageous deed had been wiped out with its charred 
evidence. 

“You know of nothing?” he insisted, watching 
her narrowly. “I used to have my maudlin mo- 


A DIAMOND CLUSTER 171 

ments of contrition even in that period, didn’t I? 
And if I had done anything wrong I should have 
told you. Where on earth did the money come 
from?” 

She did not help him to discover. The burden of 
his sin she had borne at its heaviest. She would 
not share the memory of that crushing load. 

At dusk Stella was watering a flower-bed under 
the shadow of the hedge which separated the front 
garden from the road. Two men were walking 
past, and she caught a scrap of their conversation. 
It was rather one-sided, for the speaker gave his 
companion very little opportunity of getting a word 
in. 

“I thought when I saw you at first, Mr. Wilmot, 
that you were going to be difficult. You quiet, deep 
men are always the most baffling to a reporter-” 

Mr. Downer was discussing a subject very dear to 
Mr. Arthur Wilmot, namely, Mr. Arthur Wilmot. 



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 

Andy Macleod had ordered all the morning news¬ 
papers, and they were brought up to him whilst he 
was in bed. He ran his fingers over their folds and 
chose the Megaphone because he had learnt it was on 
behalf of the Megaphone that Mr. Downer was con¬ 
ducting his investigations. 

He opened the paper with a dull sense of appre¬ 
hension and he discovered that he had sufficient 
cause. The Megaphone is not a journal that deals 
with sensational news sensationally. It has a strong 
political following, an excellent foreign correspon¬ 
dence, and a certain literary quality. The record of 
crimes was usually relegated to interior pages, but 
for once the Megaphone had splashed the crime story 
on its principal page. 

Andy read the headline: 

“The Midnight Woman!” 

but it was the second line which brought him to his 
feet with an oath: 

“Miss Nelson’s Relations With The Dead 
Man.” 

172 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 


173 


He did not read the paragraph which followed, 
but put the paper down on the bed. His first feel¬ 
ing was one of consternation as he thought of the 
girl and what she would feel when she saw that head¬ 
line. His second was of Mr. Downer. He had 
never strangled a reporter, but he felt that in cer¬ 
tain circumstances it would be rather a pleasant job. 

He picked up the newspaper and read: 

“Yesterday’s inquest at Beverley on the two men 
who were found murdered in such sensational circum¬ 
stances was (writes our special correspondent) the 
merest formality. The proceedings neither revealed 
facts unknown to the public nor did they bring us any 
nearer a solution of the mystery. 

“For some extraordinary reason the police pretend 
they do not know the name of the woman who called 
at Mr. Merrivan’s house at half-past ten and is alleged 
to have left the house at eleven o’clock. Dr. Andrew 
Macleod, who is not only an eminent pathologist but a 
brilliant member of that inner council of crime investi¬ 
gators which is the terror of evil-doers, stated in 
evidence that he had seen a woman leave the house at 
that hour. It is clear, however, from enquiries which 
have been made, that the night was so dark—the moon 
was entirely hidden behind clouds—that it was humanly 
impossible for Dr. Macleod to have followed the 
woman across the green. That a woman did leave 
Beverley Green I have established. She was a ser¬ 
vant of Mr. Sheppard, who went to the end of the lane 
to post a letter in a letter-box which stands on the 
juncture of a lane on the main road. It is certain that 
this is the woman whom Dr. Macleod saw, and not the 


174 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


woman who was heard by Mr. Merrivan’s butler 
quarrelling with his employer. Who, then, was this 
lady? It is generally known in Beverley that it was 
Miss Stella Nelson, the daughter of that eminent artist, 
Kenneth Nelson, who resides in Beverley Green. 

“It is no secret that for this lady Mr. Merrivan en¬ 
tertained the highest and, I might say without of¬ 
fence, the most affectionate regard. He had offered 
her marriage, an offer which must have been favour¬ 
ably entertained, for three days before the murder he 
purchased an engagement ring from Stelling Bros. 
On the day following the murder that ring was found 
in the grass within fifty yards of Miss Nelson's front 
gate. It is known, too, that, some time before, Miss 
Nelson was in financial difficulties and secured a loan 
of £300 from Mr. Merrivan, repaying this from the 
proceeds of two bills which she successfully negotiated 
with the man who is cited as the murderer, namely 
Abraham Selim. 

“Those bills, which were in the house the day before 
the murder, have vanished. How came the girl ac¬ 
quainted with Selim? So well acquainted that, with¬ 
out any security whatever, he had advanced her a large 
sum of money? The question of this acquaintanceship 
is yet to be cleared up, but it is undoubtedly the fact 
that the name of Darius Merrivan appeared on the 
bills as acceptor, and that the receipt of those bills by 
the deceased man came as a thunderclap. The in¬ 
ference is that the acceptances were forged. I am not 
suggesting that Miss Nelson knew that these ac¬ 
ceptances were false or that she was in any sense a 
party to any fraud that may have been perpetrated. 
A week before the tragedy Mr. Merrivan had shown 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 


175 


his nephew, Mr. Arthur Wilmot, the bills, which, to¬ 
gether with the marriage certificate of an old servant 
of his, which was probably preserved for sentimental 
reasons, and a few other documents, were locked in a 
desk in the room where Merrivan interviewed Miss 
Nelson, and where he met his death. 

‘‘Those documents have disappeared. There was 
in the fireplace when the police came upon the spot a 
heap of burnt paper, and it is clear that the murderer 
had ransacked the safe in search of these papers and 
had burnt them before he made his escape. Who had 
an object in burning the contents of the safe? Ob¬ 
viously one such was the person who had forged Mr. 
Merrivan’s acceptances. 

“Now, as to Miss Nelson’s movements on that 
night of the crime, this fact is established, that whilst 
a witness exists who saw her enter the house, there is 
no living person who saw her come out. Dr. Mac- 
leod’s evidence can be dismissed as a pardonable mis^ 
take. He saw a woman pass under his window; he 
fancied he saw somebody coming out of Mr. Merri¬ 
van’s house—the writer has since been in the room 
from which Dr. Macleod obtained this view, and can 
vouch for the impossibility of anybody seeing Merri¬ 
van’s front door—and in his honest mistake has to 
some extent increased his own difficulties. 

“But the most remarkable feature of the case is the 
extraordinary trouble he has taken to gloss over the 
important clue of the woman visitor. To one person 
he had stated it was a neighbour—which hardly goes 
with his story of a woman who passed under his 
window—to another he has told a second story. The 
discovery of the ring he treated as lightly. In one 
respect, however, he has been consistent. He has 


176 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


steadfastly kept the name of Miss Nelson from dis¬ 
cussion, and has stood between her and those who, like 
himself, are endeavouring to discover the murderer 
of Darius Merrivan. ,, 

Andy read the account again. It was in a sense 
a masterpiece. The truth was so dovetailed into 
the maliciously false that it was impossible for 
anybody, other than one acquainted with all the 
facts, to see the joints. This was, of course, Arthur 
Wilmot, presented by that expert stater of cases, 
Mr. Downer. 

He dressed quickly and went across to see Stella, 
and at the first glance at her face he knew she had 
read the report. 

'‘Mr. Scottie saw it first/’ she said as she closed 
the door after him, “and he has taken father out 
on a sketching tour. Luckily he had planned this 
days ago.” 

“Your father hasn’t seen it?” 

She shook her head. 

She wa9 amazingly self-possessed, he thought. 
He had expected to find her on the verge of a 
nervous breakdown. Instead, she was as calm as 
she was serious. 

“I think Arthur told him all this,” she said. 
“You know the truth now, Andrew.” 

“I knew it all along,” said he quietly, “except 
about your borrowing money. Of course, you bor¬ 
rowed it for your father?” 

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “There is 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 


177 

no sense at this moment in pretending that father 
hasn’t been perfectly dreadful.” 

She looked at him with a light in her eyes that 
he had not seen before. 

“And it is true that you shielded me, Andy,” she 
said. “What will happen now ?” 

“I’ll tell you what Downer expects—that I will 
send in my resignation this morning,” he said in a 
matter-of-fact tone, and she gasped. 

“Then this has—ruined you—professionally, I 
mean? Oh, Andy!” 

“I admit that I have no false idea about the truth 
of what this—this gentleman says,” he went on, 
“but I have neglected my duty only in the sense that 
I refused to follow up avenues which I knew would 
lead me nowhere. I know you didn’t commit the 
murder. If I resign I must also issue a writ for 
libel against the Megaphone, which you also would 
be compelled to do. But we won’t take it to law, 
Stella. I know another way and a better. That 
cursed woman under the window! Of course, I 
didn’t see anybody,” he said, unashamed. “I was 
just making alibis for you. It was the worst luck 
in the world that Sheppard’s servant went out at 
that time and supplied Downer with an explanation.” 

“I suppose Sheppard’s servant did go out?” she 
asked. 

He nodded. 

“Downer never makes mistakes of that kind,” he 
said. “If he says the servant went out at eleven 
o’clock you can bet all your money that he’s right. 


178 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Wilmot gave him all his information. It is true that 
Wilmot had no right to be in possession of it. You 
brought the bills here, didn’t you?” 

She was silent. 

Presently: 

“Andy, I have a confession to make. I should 
have told you before, but Mr. Scottie advised me 
not to.” 

There and then, and with all frankness, she told 
him of Arthur Wilmot’s visit with the bills intact, 
and of Scottie’s act of highway robbery with vio¬ 
lence. He listened, and a light dawned upon him. 

“Now I understand. The blackmailing brute! 
He is getting back on you in the easiest way. No¬ 
body can prove that his uncle did not show him the 
bills a week before his death, and their disappear¬ 
ance, taken with the burnt ashes in the fireplace of 
Merrivan’s sitting-room, looks all the more suspi¬ 
cious. Now, what are we going to do, Stella ?” He 
stopped suddenly and frowned. “I gave Wilmot 
permission to go into the house. That is where he 
found that stuff. What was it? A wedding cer¬ 
tificate of an old servant, a few important docu¬ 
ments, and the notes. Wait!” 

He was out of the house and striding across the 
green in a minute. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 

It was the last day the police were in occupation 
of the house, and he was fortunate in finding the 
sergeant who had been there when Arthur Wilmot 
had paid his visit. 

“No, sir, I think he was in the bedroom most of 
the time. He wasn’t there long,” said that official 
in reply to a question. 

Andy went up the stairs two at a time. He had 
visited the bedroom three or four times. Again he 
made his scrutiny. Instinctively he knew that the 
hiding-place was somewhere in the vicinity of the 
bed. The shield and the Tudor rose attracted his 
attention by reason of the fact that whilst on the 
footpost the flat end of the petal was exactly straight 
and at right angles to the upright post, on the other 
post it had been twisted askew. He bent down, 
first pulled, then turned the florette. It clicked, 
and he pulled open an empty drawer. 

It was not exactly empty, he found, when he 
had pulled it right out—it ran for eighteen inches 
into the seemingly solid side supports—there was 
a slip of paper on which three sets of figures were 
179 


180 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

written. The first was £6,700 and this had been 
crossed out. The second was £6,500. This, too, 
had been crossed out, and written beneath it were 
the ciphers £6,370. The difference was £130. The 
price of the ring! Andrew was sure of one thing, 
that it was in this drawer that the bills had been 
concealed, and with them the “marriage certificate 
of an old servant,” and—he whistled; £6,370! 

A methodical man was Mr. Merrivan. He kept 
account of the money that was in the drawer, and 
when he extracted any he crossed out the total 
and substituted the new sum that was left. If he 
could be sure! Andy’s eyes sparkled. 

He went back to the girl feeling almost cheerful 
and found her sitting where he had left her. 

“Andy, you are not to dream of resigning,” she 
said as he came into the room. “I will write down 
a statement telling the truth, and will give it to 
you.” 

“And how are you going to explain Scottie?” 
asked Andy, and her jaw dropped. “No, my dear, 
we are living examples of that jolly old adage which 
deals with deceivers and the webs they weave, and 
we are so interlocked that one of us can’t come 
down without the other. Anyway, I shan’t resign. 
We’ll let the matter slide until I hear what head¬ 
quarters are doing.” 

Now police headquarters is so inured to news¬ 
paper criticism that it grows uneasy if it is withheld. 
Moreover, there existed between headquarters and 
the Megaphone a coolness over the publication of 


MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 181 


an indiscreet paragraph which had sent a much- 
wanted company promoter scuttling abroad. 

Andy was sent for, and, going up to town, spent 
two hours with his immediate chief, and the end 
of it was that he came back with his authority 
strengthened. He found a semi-apologetic note 
from Downer, which was not like the reporter. 

Mr. Nelson had returned, had read the paper, 
and searched Beverley Green with a hunting crop 
looking for Mr. Downer and the absent Arthur 
Wilmot, and in the end had been quieted by Scottie. 

“It is monstrous, monstrous, Macleod,” he raved, 
to the undoing of all Scottie’s good work. ‘Til 
sue those people for libel, by gad! and I’ll break that 
fellow’s infernal head.” 

“You can do as you like about the libel,” said 
Andy, “but you will put me in a very awkward 
position if you interfere at this moment, Mr. Nelson. 
I will undertake to weaken the assurance of Downer. 
I dare say he has a very hot one ready for us to¬ 
morrow, but, unless I am mistaken, that will not 
be printed. You attack reporters in exactly the 
same manner as you attack juries. You shake the 
credibility of their witnesses. And I am going to 
give Arthur Wilmot the shock of his life to-night.” 

Mr. Arthur Wilmot had found in Downer a man 
of sensibility and judgment. He was not, he told 
Downer several times, the kind of man who made 
sudden friendships. Downer agreed with him; he 
had never had that illusion. In fact, the first time 
he had seen Mr. Arthur Wilmot he had said: 


182 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


‘There goes a man of singular judgment and a dif¬ 
ficult man to know.” 

He beamed benevolently at the object of his ad¬ 
miration. They were dining in a private room at 
the Beverley Hotel, which had the advantage, from 
Mr. Wilmot’s point of view, of being away from 
Beverley Green, and from Mr. Downer’s point of 
view the advantage of being near to the telegraph 
office. 

“That article of yours was a little bit fierce this 
morning, wasn’t it, Downer?” he asked. 

It was a question he had put before. 

“No, I don’t think so,” said Downer indifferently. 
“It puts the young lady in an awkward position, 
but, after all, Mr. Wilmot, we have certain responsi¬ 
bilities as citizens, and, whilst I do not suggest, 
and have not suggested for one moment, that she 
knows anything about the murder, she certainly 
has behaved in a peculiar manner.” 

“I quite agree,” said Arthur. “The point I want 
to make is this—I want to avoid, as far as possible, 
any hint that I gave you this information. When 
I told you I saw her going into the house you prom¬ 
ised me that my name should not be mentioned.” 

“In that connection,” corrected the other. “You 
may be sure that I shall not put a word about you 
in any account I write which will compromise you 
to the slightest degree. You haven’t told me any 
of your private business, Mr. Wilmot, because you 
are one of those reticent people who don’t wear their 
hearts on their sleeves, but I’ve got an idea at the 


MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 183 


back of my mind that this young lady hasn’t treated 
you very well ?” 

“She hasn’t,” said the other shortly, “but don’t 
let us talk about it. I don’t bear her any grudge, 
but, as you say, we have certain duties as citizens.” 

“Exactly,” said Mr. Downer. 

They strolled back to the green, following the 
path that was farthest away from the Nelsons. 
Downer was getting a little impatient; he had quite 
a number of new facts, but just this once he wanted 
Wilmot’s permission before he sent them off. 
Later, when all the threads were in his hands, he 
would dispense with his permission and approval. 

The hour was getting late, and, although a wire 
was kept open for him at the post office, he had still 
a lot of work to do. 

He accepted Arthur Wilmot’s invitation to “Come 
in for a minute or two” as his right, and his host 
ushered him into the apartment where Andy had 
seen the unfinished lady’s hat. 

It was a good-sized corner room, with two large 
stained glass windows set in deep recesses, across 
which blue velvet curtains were drawn. Wilmot 
had told the truth when he said that no servant was 
allowed in this room, for he had to unlock the door 
before he opened it. 

“There you are,” he said, switching on all the 
lights. “Take a seat, Downer. That’s a comfort¬ 
able one. Will you have a drink ?” 

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Downer. “I’ve got 
a lot of work to do. Now, what about this girl? 


184 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


I must follow up to-day’s story. Have you any 
reason to believe that Macleod is sweet on her ?” 

“One moment,” said Wilmot, and, getting up, 
he went to the curtains at the far end of the room 
and drew them aside. “I thought I felt a draught. 
The infernal window is open. Heaven knows who 
might have been listening. Now, who the devil did 
that?” He made the window fast, rearranged the 
curtains, and came back. “That is a point I don’t 
want to touch on,” he said. “She is a very impres¬ 
sionable girl at a romantic age, and the fellow has 
probably fascinated her.” 

“Then there is something between them?” asked 
the alert Downer. 

“There is a kind of-” Wilmot hesitated. “I 

hardly know what to call it. Put it this way; he is 
a man much older than the lady, and he has used 
his wiles and his art-” 

“I don’t think I should put it that way,” said 
Mr. Downer gently. “There are certain limitations 
imposed, even upon a crime reporter. Shall we 
say that a great friendship has sprung up between 
them ? The reader will know what that means. It 
will give the idea that he has got entangled with 
this girl.” 

It was at that moment that a gentle knock sounded 
on the door and a maid-servant came in. 

“Will you see Mr. Macleod?” she asked. 

The two men exchanged glances, and Downer 
nodded. 




MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 185 


“Show him in,” said Wilmot, wetting his lips, 
which had gone suddenly dry. 

“Evening, Downer. Good evening, Mr. Wil¬ 
mot.” 

Andy put down his hat and stood by the door 
eyeing them. 

“Won’t you sit down, Macleod?” asked Wilmot 
nervously. “You know Mr. Downer?” 

“I know him remarkably well,” said Andy, with¬ 
out enthusiasm. 

“You are not wild about my article, are you, Mac¬ 
leod?” asked Downer, in well-feigned surprise. 
“You are too old a hand at this game to worry about 
what newspapers say.” 

“This, I presume,” Andy nodded towards Wilmot, 
“is the source of your information?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Downer. 

“God knows you wouldn’t!” said Andy. “I’ll 
say this for you, Downer, that in your articles you 
tell as near to the truth as possible, and it is about 
the only time you do. This morning you printed 
a lot of stuff which was designed”—Downer smiled 
—“to defeat the ends of justice. Don’t interrupt. 
I have never said this to you before, and it is ex¬ 
tremely unlikely that I shall ever tell you again. 
Miss Nelson may or may not take an action against 
your paper, but, if she does, it will cost them twenty 
thousand.” 

“The statements I have made are authenticated.” 

“By whom? By this man?” Andy pointed to 


186 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


the scowling Wilmot. “I am going to show you 
just how much reliance you can place upon Wilmot.” 
He walked over to where Wilmot was sitting and 
looked down at him. “I have come to make en¬ 
quiries as to the whereabouts of £6,370, extracted 
from the secret drawer in Mr. Merrivan’s bed¬ 
stead.” 

Wilmot leapt to his feet as though he were shot. 

“What—what?” he spluttered. 

“There are also other documents stolen by you.” 

“Stolen?” repeated Wilmot shrilly. “What do 
you mean? I am my uncle’s heir.” 

“Stolen by you, I repeat, and as to being your 
uncle’s heir, that is a matter for the courts to decide. 

There was also a marriage certificate-” He was 

watching the other narrowly as he spoke, and saw 
him start. “Now, Wilmot, there seems to be seri¬ 
ous trouble ahead for you. What are you going to 
do about it?” 

Arthur Wilmot was breathing painfully. He 
Was for the moment incapable of speech, and An¬ 
drew turned to the reporter. 

“Does it occur to you that this man may be sus¬ 
pect, and that you may be accused of conspiring 
with him to throw suspicion upon an innocent 
woman?” 

“I am not in this case at all,” said Downer loudly. 
He was thoroughly alarmed. “I am merely report¬ 
ing the events as I find them.” 

“You are doing a little to invent those events,” 
said Andy, “and, so far as your being a disinterested 



MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 187 


spectator, Downer, you are a participant. The in¬ 
ference which must be drawn is that you knew of 
this theft-” 

“I won’t have it called a theft,” interrupted Wil- 
mot, finding his voice. ‘‘I admit I took several 
things from my uncle’s drawer. It was his wish 
that I should.” 

“Did you report the matter to his lawyer?” asked 
Andy drily. 

“That was not necessary.” 

“Indeed, it was very necessary,” corrected Andy. 

“I took these things because I was afraid of their 
falling into the hands of the servants.” 

“What was there ?” asked Andy. 

“If you had come to me before I would have 
handed them over to you,” Wilmot was going on. 

“What were they?” asked Andy. 

“There was a marriage certificate, a sum of money 
—I think it was the amount you mentioned, though 

I haven’t counted it—a list of securities, and-” 

He paused, and went on deliberately, “Two forged 
bills drawn by Mr. Nelson in favour of Abraham 
Selim and accepted by my uncle. The acceptance 
was a forgery. Those bills were stolen from me by 
a criminal in your employ, and are probably de¬ 
stroyed.” 

“When did the robbery occur?” asked Andy. 

“Two nights ago.” 

“Did you report it?” 

“No; you know very well I didn’t report it.” 

“Why not?” asked Andy coolly. “The law pro- 




i88 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


tects you as much as it protects any other man. 
You don’t expect me to believe that you would be 
robbed of valuable securities and never mention a 
word, although the place is teaming with police of¬ 
ficers ?” 

Wilmot was silent. 

“Anyway, we’ll see these things. Have you got 
them ?” 

“I’ve got them here in this wall safe,” said Wil¬ 
mot sulkily. 

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and be¬ 
gan searching. 

“Where the devil is the key of the safe?” he 
said. 

Andy suspected him of wilfully procrastinating 
for some purpose, but the man’s surprise was genu¬ 
ine. He could not have simulated that look of 
blank dismay which spread over his face as he 
handled key after key. 

“It was on my ring this afternoon when I was at 
the bathing pool,” he said. “It hasn’t left me ex¬ 
cept then.” 

He pulled aside the sliding panel that hid the safe. 

“The safe door isn’t fastened,” said Andy. 

With an exclamation Wilmot opened the door of 
the safe and put in his hand. 

“Good Lord!” he gasped, relieved. “I thought 
somebody had stolen it.” 

He threw the pocket book on the table. 

“The other documents,” said Andy. 

“Here is the list of securities, and here-” He 



MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 189 


groped, and Andy saw a look of bewilderment come 
to his face. ‘Til swear I put it there.” 

‘‘What?” 

“The marriage certificate is gone!” 

It happened that at that moment Andy turned 
his head toward the door. Between the door and 
the curtained recess were three electric switches 
that controlled the lights of the room. As he looked 
he saw a hand come out from behind the curtains 
and move towards the switches. He was momen¬ 
tarily paralysed with surprise at the strangeness of 
the sight. There was a click, and the room was 
plunged into darkness. Another instant and the 
glare of an electric lamp thrust into their faces 
blinded them. 

“Don’t move,” said a husky voice. “If you do 
I’ll shoot, whether you are policeman, reporter, or 
just plain thief.” 

“Who are you ?” asked Andy sternly. 

“My name is Abraham Selim,” said the voice. 

Another moment and the door opened and closed; 
they heard the snap of the key being turned in the 
lock and the thud of the front door as it slammed 
behind the intruder. 

Andy tore to the window in front of the house 
and pulled aside the curtains. Through Wilmot’s 
stained glass panes nothing would have been visible 
even if it had been broad daylight. By the time 
the window was open and Andy had slipped through 
into the night all sign of the visitor had disappeared. 

Presently Wilmot and the reporter joined him out- 


190 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


side. The servant, answering Wilmot’s furious bell, 
had released them. 

“Another adventure of your friend Scottie,” said 
Wilmot between his teeth. 

Andy turned his head towards the speaker. 

“My friend Scottie, as you call him, would hardly 
have left £6,000 behind him, and of one thing I am 
perfectly certain—he does not indulge in the luxury 
of a manicure!” 

Andy’s shrill whistle brought a policeman at the 
run. 

“Send the sergeant to me and telephone your sta¬ 
tion to turn out every man for a search. Get any 
assistance you can. Rush!” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


A VISIT TO THE HALL 

At this hour Scottie might have been out, but it 
happened that he was helping Stella prepare Ken¬ 
neth Nelson’s newest picture for transportation, and 
he had not left the house all the evening, she told 
Andy. He went back to the Wilmot establishment. 
Mr. Downer was gone. 

“I’ll take this money,” said Andy, gathering up 
the pocket-book. “And now, Wilmot, I would like 
you to tell me as much as you can remember about 
this marriage certificate.” 

“Do you really think that was Abraham Selim?” 

“I am certain that it was the man who killed your 
uncle,” said Andy shortly, “and he was pointing to 
us the identical weapon with which that murder was 
committed.” 

Mr. Wilmot shivered. 

“The certificate referred to a marriage between a 
man called John Severn and Hilda Masters, a par¬ 
lourmaid. The marriage occurred about thirty 
years ago at St. Paul’s, Marylebone.” 

Andy jotted down the particulars. 

“Did your uncle’s name appear in any capacity?” 

Wilmot shook his head. 


192 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“You know nobody named John Severn? You 
have not heard your uncle refer to him?” 

“Never,” said Wilmot. “Now about this money, 
Macleod. I don’t want any trouble if I can avoid 
it. I really took it for safe keeping. How did you 
find out?” 

“You know my methods, Watson,” said Andrew 
sarcastically. “This will look pretty ugly, but my 
advice to you is to keep as far away from Mr. 
Downer as you possibly can. He’ll have no mercy 
on you, and he will betray you with as little concern 
as he would betray Abraham Selim if he knew him.” 

Something of the same idea was dawning upon 
the young man. 

“He’s scared about that libel action,” he said. 
“I think to-morrow’s paper will be milder. Be¬ 
sides, the dramatic appearance of Selim is going to 
give him all the copy he wants.” 

Andrew had thought the same thing. 

He looked in on Stella before he went to the 
guest house. Scottie had gone to bed, like the vir¬ 
tuous man that he was. 

“Everybody in Beverley is being sweet about the 
article,” said Stella. “I have never had so many 
people call upon me—the Sheppards, the Masons, 
and that quiet couple, the Gibbs. They are furious 
with Arthur Wilmot. What will the newspapers 
say to-morrow?” she asked. 

“Very little,” said Andy. “Downer will lay him¬ 
self out to do the burglary at Wilmot’s and the visit 
of the mysterious Abraham. He will also seize this 


A VISIT TO THE HALL 


193 


opportunity of releasing you from all suspicion. 
People frequently threaten newspapers with libel 
actions in similar circumstances, but they very sel¬ 
dom get any farther than threats. But Downer 
knew he had overdone it, and I knew he was a little 
nervous on that score when I got his note this morn¬ 
ing. It was very unlike Downer to write, because, 
really, he doesn't care tuppence about my opinion of 
him, and he is not easily scared. He must have had 
some doubt as to the reliability of Wilmot.” 

The fog which enveloped the Beverley Green 
murder was growing deep. It had grown so thick 
that Andrew, figuratively speaking, could not see a 
yard before him. The appearance of Abraham 
Selim brought him no nearer to the solution. Why 
had the man taken this risk to obtain an apparently 
worthless marriage certificate? Who was John 
Severn and who was the parlourmaid, Hilda Mas¬ 
ters? 

He waited at the guest house, from time to time 
receiving reports on the telephone from the meagre 
force of police which was searching the countryside 
for a stranger. In this search the police from the 
neighbouring villages were assisting. The main 
roads were patrolled and the cross-roads guarded. 
To work with his small force across open country 
was impossible. He must leave that until daylight. 

At one o’clock in the morning he came out of 
the guest house to get a little air. His room was 
hot and stuffy and his head was aching. 

No light showed in Beverley Green. Its people 


194 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


were sleeping. Not even in Stella’s upper room did 
so much as a glimmer appear. 

He was joined by Dane, who had cycled up with 
the latest report. 

“We’ve held up every motor-car between here and 
Cranford Corner. Do you think i| is advisable to 
have a house to house search of Beverley Green?” 

Andrew shook his head. 

“I don’t see what result could come from that,” 
he said. “If Selim were a local inhabitant he can 
account for himself, and it is impossible to search 
every house thoroughly. It would be illegal without 
the necessary warrant. Perhaps- r” 

Andy was going on when the stillness of the night 
was broken by the sound of a shot. It was fol¬ 
lowed by a second and a third, an interval, and then 
a fourth. It came from the direction of the high 
lands beyond the village. 

“They can’t be poachers,” said Dane. 

“Poachers do not use revolvers,” snapped Andy, 
“and that those were pistol shots I’ll swear!” 

And then the guest house telephone began to ring 
furiously. They heard it through the open door, 
before the weary Johnston hurried out to call him. 

“Mr. Boyd Salter, sir, on the ’phone. He wants 
you urgently. That was his word—urgently!” 

Andrew ran into the house, took up the receiver, 
and heard Boyd Salter’s voice. 

“Is that you, Mr. Macleod? Did you hear the 
shots?” 

“Yes, sir.” 



A VISIT TO THE HALL 


195 


“I fired ’em,” was the grim reply. “There has 
been a burglary at the Hall. Somebody tried to 
break in. He was making towards Spring Covert. 
Can you come ?” 

Andy got his car out of the guest house garage, 
and, with Dane at his side, flew along the main 
road, and after some delay succeeded in arousing the 
lodge-keeper. 

Mr. Boyd Salter, looking very white and ill, and 
wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas, was 
waiting for them in his library. 

‘‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Macleod,” he said. 

“Did you see the man ?” asked Andy quickly. 

“Only the back of him. He must have been in 
the house half an hour before I heard him, and I 
shouldn’t have heard him then only the rascal had 
the audacity to come into my room.” 

He showed them the window that had been forced. 
It was in a small drawing-room off the library. 

“He has been in the library too,” explained Mr. 
Boyd Salter. “You see, those desks have been 
forced.” 

The drawers had been broken open and pulled 
out, and half their contents were on the floor. 

“Probably he had the impression that there was 
money here,” the Justice went on. “Of course I 
never keep anything of value in the library.” 

“Did he go into any other rooms?” 

“I have an idea he went into my son’s room— 
my son is away at Cambridge—but I am not sure.” 

He led the way to the floor above, but here 


196 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

nothing had been disturbed, though the door of 
young Boyd Salter’s room was undoubtedly open. 

“He may very well have mistaken this room for 
mine. Mine is exactly opposite,” said the owner 
of Beverley Hall. “I don’t know what woke me. 
It may have been the creaking of the door, though 
I have such a detestation of creaking doors that 
the hinges of all the doors at the Hall are thoroughly 
oiled at regular intervals.” 

“He took nothing from here?” asked Andy. 

“Nothing,” was the reply. “He hadn’t time. 
The moment I sat up in bed I heard the shuffle of 
his feet and he was gone. I caught a glimpse of 
him at the other end of the corridor as I came out of 
the room and ran downstairs shouting for Tilling. 
I caught another glimpse of him as he got through 
the window of the library, which was in darkness 
when I reached it. I always keep a pistol in my 
room, a £olt automatic, and I fired after him as he 
ran down the steps of the terrace and vanished into 
the darkness.” 

“You didn’t hear him speak?” 

Mr. Boyd Salter shook his head. 

It was the work of an expert, Andy could see 
that at a glance. If he were not absolutely sure that 
Scottie was at that moment sleeping the sleep of the 
just, and was hardly likely at this juncture to go 
back to his old ways, he could have sworn to that 
individual being the midfiight visitor. 

Against this was the fact that Scottie had never 
been guilty of rifling a place unless he had exact 


A VISIT TO THE HALL 


197 

information as to the quantity and position of the 
valuables it contained. 

This burglar had had no fixed plan. Scottie 
would not have turned out papers from the desk, 
and would certainly not have bearded Mr. Boyd 
Salter in his room. 

“This is the second burglary that has been com¬ 
mitted to-night, sir,” said Andy, and told of Wil- 
mot’s visitor. 

“Abraham Selim,” said the other thoughtfully. 
“No, I won’t interfere with your theories, Mr. Mac- 
leod.” 

“Is anything missing?” 

The other shook his head. 

“I hardly think so. There was nothing here 
worth taking except a few leases, and I should not 
think he would trouble about those.” 

“What is that?” 

Andy walked to the fireplace. It was empty, as 
all the other fireplaces had been empty, since the 
weather was unusually warm. At the bottom of 
the grate were the black ashes of burnt paper! The 
identical feature that had distinguished the murder 
of Darius Merrivan! 

“Did you burn something?” 

The squire shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “Is the writing distinguishable? 
It sometimes is after it is burnt.” 

' Andrew knelt down and flashed his lamp upon 
the ashes. 

“No, this has been broken up,” he said, and 


198 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

gently lifted a scrap larger than the others and car¬ 
ried it to the table. 

“It looks like ‘R Y L/ ” he said. “A curious 
combination of letters.” 

“Orylbridge,” suggested Boyd Salter. “I have 
some property in that village.” 

He picked up some papers from the floor. 

“It would be impossible for me to check them to¬ 
night,” he said. “Perhaps you will come up in the 
morning, doctor.” 

Andy waited to receive the report from two game- 
keepers, who, hastily summoned from bed, had 
searched the covert, before he returned to the Green. 

“This case is getting on my nerves, Dane,” he 
said as the car went down the hill to the lodge gates. 
“One thing is certain, that concealed somewhere 
in this valley is a murderer, call him Abraham Selim 
or whatever you wish. Obviously he is a local. 
There is no other possible explanation for the rap¬ 
idity and sureness of his movements. He knows 
every inch of the ground, and he is looking for 
something. He killed Merrivan to find whatever 
it was he sought. He killed Sweeny because by 
some accident Sweeny happened to be in the orchard. 
He broke into Beverley Hall also for the purpose of 
search. But why did he in both cases burn the 
'something’ in the fireplace ?” 

“Where else could he burn it?” asked Inspector 
Dane intelligently. “In both cases the fireplace was 
near at hand.” 

Andrew did not reply. 


A VISIT TO THE HALL 199 

There was a third case of burning, he remembered, 
and it had been Stella who had employed the same 
method of disposing of something she wished de¬ 
stroyed. 

It was half-past two, and the east was lighting 
palely when he said good-night to the inspector and 
turned into his lodgings. As he did so he glanced 
across to the Nelson house and stopped dead. Stella 
was up; her light showed through the blinds. 

He waited for nearly an hour, waited until the 
world was dawn-grey, and then the light was ex¬ 
tinguished. 

Andrew sighed and went to bed. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 

Scottie loafed into his room before Andy was 
awake the following morning. Scottie had his 
hands thrust into his pockets and his face wore a 
look of supreme discontent. 

“Hullo, Scottie,” said Andrew, struggling to.his 
elbow. “Anything wrong?” 

“Nothing, except the general moral tone of this 
community,” said Scottie, sitting down. “I am go¬ 
ing up to town, Macleod. This place is a bit too 
exciting for me, and, anyway, you’re getting your¬ 
self a bad name. I met that pen-pusher, Downer, 
this morning, and he was as full of trouble as a 
dog is full of fleas. Said it was the worst case 
he had ever handled, and that he had given up a 
good, comfortable, straightforward murder to come 
here, and he wishes he hadn’t.” 

“Have you seen his paper?” 

Scottie nodded. 

“Mild, Macleod, that’s the word, and punk. It 
was all about what terrible danger he was in, and 
how a masked figure sprang from the curtains and 
threatened him with death.” 

“Whether it was masked or not, nobody knows. 

200 




MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 201 


I should say it wasn’t,” said Andy. “What does 
he say about Miss Nelson?” 

“He gives her a clean bill. Everything has been 
satisfactorily explained, he says, and there is an 
apology in the paper.” 

“Then he’s going away?” asked Andy with some 
satisfaction. 

Scottie shook his head. 

“He said so. But what a—a—reporter! I’ll bet 
he’s staying another week.” 

He strolled to the door. 

“Maybe I’ll come back, Macleod,” he said. “So 
long.” 

He was gone before Andy could ask him whether 
Stella Nelson was visible at that hour. 

He was reaching the dead end of this crime, facing 
a baffling cul-de-sac. The time was approaching 
when he must leave Beverly Green and the murder 
must pass into the category of unpunished crimes. 

The real mystery was the chain of circumstances 
that bound together Darius Merrivan, Abraham 
Selim, and the murderer. 

He intended calling on Stella, but his plan was 
changed by the arrival of a long telegram from 
headquarters. He read it and whistled. 

“Come to town at once. Mr. Wentworth, a mem¬ 
ber of a business in Ashlar Buildings, has disappeared. 
Enquiries at his bank show that he has an enormous 
sum of money on deposit. There is reason to believe 
that Abraham Selim is connected with the disap¬ 
pearance.” 


202 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Mr. Wentworth had occupied a suite of offices 
next door to that which Abraham Selim had rented. 
Andrew knew this from his previous enquiries; 
knew, too, something of the standing of the firm 
before he questioned Mr. Wentworth’s distressed 
lady clerk. 

“He was in the office last Friday,” said the girl. 
“He left my salary, money for petty cash, and told 
me that he would be in on Monday or Tuesday. I 
had a little talk with him about the business, be¬ 
cause we were doing practically none and I was 
worrying about how long he would go on before he 
closed up the office. But he was very cheerful and 
told me that he would soon have good news for me. 
He said this in a joking way. He was always a 
little jocular.” 

“You know where he lives, of course?” asked 
Andy. 

“No, sir, I don’t. I have an idea that he lives 
in hotels. He wrote me once or twice when he was 
away, and his address was always an hotel, though 
I never sent any letters to him there. Another 
remark I remember his making the last time I saw 
him was, that it was funny we never saw much of 
Mr. Selim.” 

“You told me that before,” said Andy, nodding. 
“Do you remember the hotel he wrote you from 
and about what date?” 

“I’ve got those in the day book,” she said. “I 
thought you might want them, and I have taken 
them out.” 


MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 203 


Andy glanced at the list she had prepared. They 
were well-known hotels in various parts of the coun¬ 
try and he pocketed the memorandum for future 
action. 

“Have you a photograph of Mr. Wentworth ?” 

She shook her head. 

“In appearance, what was he like?” 

Here she was very vague indeed. Her own age 
was nineteen, which is an age when anybody over 
thirty-five is “old.” He had a stoop, she remem¬ 
bered, and wore horn-rimmed spectacles. She knew 
very little about the business, and had only been in 
his employ for twelve months. She knew no other 
houses that he did business with; she never sent out 
accounts, and apparently her job was to receive 
callers who did not come, to make a precis from the 
newspapers of transactions on the Provision Ex¬ 
change (she showed him a great heap of manuscript 
she had compiled in this way), and to receive her 
salary regularly on Friday afternoon. 

It was not much of a business, she admitted. 

“I did write a letter or two to him about the 
prices, but beyond that I did nothing.” 

Andrew visited the two hotels in town which were 
included in the list the girl had given him. They 
turned up their books and confirmed her story. Mr. 
Wentworth had stayed with them, but they knew 
nothing about him, except that he was a name and 
a number. 

Andy went back to headquarters and reported. 

“Wentworth and Abraham Selim are identical 


204 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


personages,” he said. “ ‘Wentworth & Wentworth’ 
is a fake concern, and existed to give Selim an ex¬ 
cuse for being in the building. Remember that 
Selim’s clerk only attended at the office between 
eleven and one. Wentworth never came to Ashlar 
Buildings until two o’clock in the afternoon, and 
then only on certain days, which were the days that 
the clerk was away on his holiday. For Wentworth 
to slip into Abraham Selim’s office, take out the let¬ 
ters, and get back into his own room was a simple 
matter. Wentworth’s banker tells me that he has 
a dozen deed boxes filled with papers, and with 
these, I think, we shall be able to establish the iden¬ 
tity beyond any doubt.” 

“Has Wentworth drawn any money from the 
bank since he disappeared?” 

“I asked that, and they tell me that he has not. 
That, however, is easily accounted for. Selim knew 
that we should go straight to his office. He prob¬ 
ably thought that we should immediately discover 
the relationship between Wentworth and himself. 
To draw a cheque as Wentworth would mean that 
he would run the risk of detection.” 

He secured the necessary orders for access to the 
possessions of Wentworth, and in the manager’s 
private office he sat through the afternoon and far 
into the night, examining the contents of six tightly 
packed steel boxes. 

His work was facilitated by the discovery that 
two of the boxes had documents relating to the 
legitimate firm of Wentworth. Apparently Selim 


MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 205 


had purchased the business some years before, and 
even then it was not in a flourishing condition. 
Under his guidance it had gone from bad to worse, 
for the simple reason there was no need for his 
exploiting legitimate trade when he found an easier 
way to wealth, a way which offered few risks and 
enormous benefits. 

The other boxes held title deeds, instruments of 
transfer, old contracts, and in every case they were 
made out in the name of Abraham Selim. 

The man seemed to possess property in every part 
of the country. A farm here, a few workmen's 
cottages there, a coal-mine in some other place; 
there were particulars of mineral rights he had 
acquired, details of a sugar plantation in the West 
Indies, and numerous other pieces of documentary 
evidence of his enormous wealth. 

It was nearing the hour of midnight, and the last 
pile of papers was being disposed of, when Andrew, 
glancing at an old contract, saw a familiar name. 

“John Aldayn Severn." 

Severn! 

The contract was drawn up in legal language. 
It was between Abraham Selim on the one part, 
“hereinafter called the lender," and John Aldayn 
Severn on the other part. And as he read he grew 
more and more amazed at the extraordinary condi¬ 
tions which were imposed. Stripped of its legal 
terminology, the lender agreed to place at the un¬ 
known Severn’s disposal the sum of five thousand 
pounds per annum for life, and “for particular serv- 


206 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


ices rendered” Severn agreed that, in the event of 
his inheriting any property which produced the sum 
assured to him, he would pay regularly to Selim’s 
account one-half of the revenues he acquired. The 
property concerned was not particularised. 

Andy looked at the deed thoughtfully. It was 
dated five years after Severn’s marriage, if Arthur 
Wilmot’s information was correct. Had Severn 
ever inherited his estate, and, if he had, did he ever 
fulfil the contract? 

The bank manager had left two clerks to assist 
him, and there was available all the books dealing 
with Selim’s accounts. Andrew ran his finger down 
page after page, but it was difficult to distinguish 
the origin of any sum except- 

He glanced at the contract again. The payments 
were to be made on the ist. of March and the ist. of 
September. He turned to the books and traced back 
the accounts for twenty years, and on the ist. March 
and the ist. September, every year, there had been 
paid to Selim’s account sums varying from seven 
thousand to nine thousand five hundred. So Severn 
had acquired his property and was paying. 

“Here is my man,” said Andrew to himself. “If 
I find Severn I can find Abraham Selim.” 

There were no works of reference available, and 
on the following morning he examined carefully 
every directory of landed proprietors he could find. 
The name Severn occurred three times, but in each 
case they owned very little land, and his telegraph 
enquiries brought him no nearer to the identity of 



MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 207 


the John Aldayn Severn of the contract. It was a 
name entirely unknown in the vicinity of Beverley 
except to one man. 

Mr. Boyd Salter was something of an authority 
on the landed gentry, and Andy called on him the 
morning he came back to Beverley Green. 

“I think the Severn you are in search of went to 
Australia some years ago. I told you when we first 
met that a friend of mine had suffered grievously 
at the hands of Selim. I was speaking of Severn 
at the time. I knew him rather well, and I knew 
he was in the hands of moneylenders.” 

“Then the estate he inherited was in Australia?” 
suggested Andy. 

“You sound disappointed,” smiled Boyd Salter. 

“I am a little,” replied Andy. “Can you suggest 
any reason why Merrivan should have treasured his 
marriage certificate?” 

“I had no idea that he had, and talking of Mer¬ 
rivan reminds me of my burglar. I hit him.” 

“The dickens you did!” said Andy, interested. 
“How do you know, sir?” 

“We found blood marks the next morning; not 
many, but sufficient to show that he had been 
wounded, and in the hand. The imprint of his hand 
is on a leaf. I took the liberty of informing In¬ 
spector Dane in your absence, and I believe he has 
made enquiries of the doctors around, so far with¬ 
out success.” 

Instead of going to the village by car Andy walked 
back, leaving the car to be brought round to the 


208 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


village by Mr. Boyd Salter’s chauffeur. He fol¬ 
lowed the supposed track of the thief, and Madding, 
the gamekeeper, pointed out where the blood-stains 
had been found. The faintest trace remained. He 
examined the leaf; that and the twigs about it were 
gory evidence of the burglar’s hurt. 

Andy went on by the covert path into the village. 
His way skirted the orchard where Sweeny had been 
found, and he came on to the green via the tennis 
court and the narrow lane which ran by the side of 
Mr. Merrivan’s house. 

He had not seen Stella for two days. It seemed 
more like two years, and a century since he had first 
watched her through the glass panel of the telephone 
booth in Beverley post office. 

A servant answered the door. 

“Miss Nelson has gone away, sir.” 

“Gone away?” repeated Andy in astonishment. 
“Where has she gone?” 

“Would you like to see Mr. Nelson, sir. He is 
in the studio. You know your way.” 

Andy found the artist pretending to work, and 
Kenneth Nelson welcomed him warmly. 

“You don’t know how glad I am you are back, 
Macleod,” he said. “I am worried almost to death.” 

“Where is Stella?” 

“Well, she is supposed to be at her aunt’s,” said 
Nelson slowly. 

“Supposed to be? Isn’t she there?” 

“I sent a wire asking when she was coming back, 
and I had a reply from my sister saying that Stella 


MR. WENTWORTH DISAPPEARS 209 


had only spent the afternoon in the house and that 
she had gone north on business.” 

“Very probably she has,” said Andy, relieved. 

What he had expected he could not say, but 
Nelson’s news was certainly not alarming. He had 
a suspicion that Stella did not take her father into 
her confidence even in matters pertaining to his own 
welfare. 

“That alone wouldn’t worry me,” said Nelson, 
as though he read his thoughts. “I’ll show you what 
does.” 

He went upstairs with a wondering Andy behind 
him, and on the second floor he opened a door dis¬ 
closing a pretty little bedroom. 

“This is Stella’s room,” he said unnecessarily, for 
Andrew knew the exact location. 

“I came up here the day she left, which, by the 
way, was the same day that you went to town, to 
get some soft rags—Stella keeps a supply of them 
for me—but the cupboard was locked. Fortunately, 
or unfortunately, I had a key which fitted, and the 
first thing which met my eye when I opened the 
door was this.” 

He put his hand on to a shelf and pulled down a 
little bundle of linen strips. They were stained a 
deep red. 

“And look there.” 

He pointed to the floor, where the tell-tale spots 
showed clearly. 

“And on the edge of that basin. She must have 
cut herself and did not tell me a word. Her hand, 


210 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


I should think, from the regular intervals in which 
the stain occurs. Of course she can look after her¬ 
self. She had a full nursing course during the war 
and liked it.” 

Andy looked at the bandages without seeing them. 
That sudden light which had occurred in Stella’s 
room after the burglary at Beverley Hall! The 
stains which had been found in the park! It was 
incredible, impossible, that Stella could have been the 
burglar, but her sudden disappearance from view al¬ 
most confirmed his half-formed suspicion. Why 
had she gone away so unexpectedly? 

“Did you see Stella’s hand when she went?” he 
asked. 

“No; she had it in her muff. It was strange that 
she had a muff on a warm day like this. I par¬ 
ticularly remembered that after I had found the ban¬ 
dages. She was awfully nervous, too. Quite 
jumpy for Stella.” 

Andrew threw out his arms with a gesture of 
despair. 

“I’m beaten,” he said. 

He packed his bag that afternoon and stowed it 
behind his car, and with one glance at the valley of 
mystery he drove through Beverley village and to 
town. But it was not the Beverley mystery which 
had beaten him. It was the inexplicable Miss Nel¬ 
son. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


MR. DOWNER FOLLOWS A LADY 

Mr. Downer came out of the Newspaper Club with 
a tightly rolled umbrella under his arm and two 
inches of cigar in the corner of his mouth. 

The day was hot and breathless. It seemed that 
unless he employed his umbrella to relieve him of 
the pitiless glare of the sun it was a superfluity. 
But Mr. Downer would no more have thought of 
going out without his umbrella than an ordinary 
man would have thought of going about without his 
collar and tie. It was part of his personality, like 
his cigar and his hard Derby hat, and the three pen¬ 
cils and stylo that peeped out of his left-hand waist¬ 
coat pocket. 

He examined the visible world through his highly 
magnifying glasses and found it neither good nor 
bad. What was good was the brief respite he had 
from labour, for it was the end of the week, and he 
had a bungalow on the seashore, where he could 
carry his umbrella along the beach and stare through 
his powerful glasses at the sea. 

What was bad was the uncomfortable memory of 
a failure. He had been reminded of it that morn¬ 
ing when his cheque came in from the Megaphone 
211 


212 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


for the Beverley murder case. If the newspapers re¬ 
ferred to the killing of Darius Merrivan it was only 
in a few lines of type on one of the inside pages, for 
two weeks had passed, there had been an interesting 
bank failure and a fascinating divorce case to carry 
the public along, and his offer to begin his investi¬ 
gations anew had been coldly received by the news¬ 
paper to which it had been made. 

He knew that Andrew Macleod had returned to 
town. He had seen him twice on other matters. 
Andrew had given up the case as a bad job, evi¬ 
dently. He had in fact, conveyed as much in his 
interview with Downer. 

Probate of the Merrivan estate had been applied 
for on behalf of Mr. Arthur Wilmot, who had ex¬ 
pressed his intention of selling the Merrivan house 
just as soon as a likely buyer came along. 

Mr. Downer stepped out into the crowded streets, 
aloof from and superior to his surroundings. He 
had wondered whether Andy was in love with the 
Nelson girl—a train of thought brought his mind to 
her—and promised himself the luxury of describ¬ 
ing their wedding, and attaching thereto a rechauffe 
of the murder case and its romantic sequel. 

But apparently Andy had not been back to Bever¬ 
ley Green since he left. That proved nothing, for, 
according to his information, Stella Nelson had not 
returned to Beverley either. Downer’s explanation 
of this latter circumstance was that she was waiting 
until the little scandal he had aroused had blown 


MR. DOWNER FOLLOWS A LADY 213 


over. That, however, did not account for the de¬ 
tachment of Dr. Andrew Macleod. 

He was on his way to leave a manuscript at the 
office of a magazine. Mr. Downer had literary mo¬ 
ments. He was the author of Famous Criminals I 
have met; Professional Sharpers and their Methods; 
Some Famous Cases of Forgery, and divers other 
contributions to belles-lettres bore his name upon the 
title page. 

The office was situated in an unfashionable corner 
of the town, and to reach his objective he found it 
necessary to pass through a network of small streets 
occupied by working-class people. He was pausing 
at a corner marked with the inevitable general store 
when a girl came from the shop and walked away 
quickly. She carried a parcel under her arm, and 
he thought he recognised the figure. There was a 
certain familiar swing of shoulders, and, instead of 
pursuing his way, which lay in the opposite direc¬ 
tion, he followed her. She turned another corner 
and he caught a glimpse of her face. There was no 
doubt at all. It was Stella Nelson. What was she 
doing in this neighbourhood ? he wondered, and fol¬ 
lowed her cautiously. 

He saw her stop at the door of a small house, 
insert the key, and disappear from view. It was 
a very tiny house indeed. The number on the dis¬ 
coloured door was 73. He made a mental note and 
continued until he found a woman standing idly in 
her doorway. Her arms were rolled in her apron, 


214 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


and she was pathetically eager to find somebody who 
had as much time as she to gossip. 

“No, mister, she doesn’t live here,” she said, shak¬ 
ing her head when Downer asked for a fictitious 
name. 

“I haven’t been in this street for years,” mused 
Downer. “It hasn’t changed.” 

“Nothing changes here,” said the woman oracu¬ 
larly. “It will be just the same in a hundred years’ 
time.” 

“I thought I recognised the young lady who went 
into 73. How long has she been living here? She 
used to be very well off.” 

“Oh, she,” said the woman. “She doesn’t live 
here. She comes every day and goes home every 
night. Quite a lady, too, and yet she does the house 
work. I’ve seen her sweeping the front of the pave¬ 
ment.” 

“Who lives there?” 

“A seafaring man, as far as I can understand. 
Maybe it is her father.” 

“A seafaring man, eh?” said Downer. “A 
sailor?” 

“Something like that. He goes away for months 
at a time, but I have never seen her before.” 

Mr. Downer pulled at his dead cigar, scenting a 
scandal. 

“Rather nice-looking fellow, tall-” 

She shook her head. 

“No, he isn’t what I’d call strong on looks. He’s 
ill now, and I suppose she’s come to look after him. 



MR. DOWNER FOLLOWS A LADY 215 


Got on in the world and hasn’t forgotten her old 
father. That’s what I like to see about a girl.” 

The good lady, now thoroughly wound up, was 
prepared to express her views on girls at length, but 
Mr. Downer had his appointment. 

He pulled the brim of his hard hat further over 
his eyes, an action less designed to disguise himself 
than to shut him still further from the world in 
which he moved, and, shifting his umbrella from one 
arm to the other, moved back the way he had come. 

It was characteristic of him that he left the woman 
without an apology and in the midst of her narra¬ 
tive. She had served her purpose, could be of no 
further use. He might spend time and art in find¬ 
ing acquaintances; he wasted neither in demolishing 
the structure of friendship which often he had so 
laboriously created. 

After making his call, he worked out to a more 
salubrious neighbourhood. Passing police head¬ 
quarters as he did on his way to the station, he 
stopped and thought, and, reaching a decision, he 
went into the gloomy building. 

“Dr. Macleod is in the laboratory, Mr. Downer.” 
The door sergeant shook his head dubiously. “I 
shouldn’t think he’d see anybody.” He lowered his 
voice. “He’s on the poisoned woman, the Sweizer 
case. Yes, Reeder is in charge, but the doctor is 
doing the examinations. We had Tensey, the big 
specialist, here this afternoon. That’s for your¬ 
self.” 

Downer nodded, and impressed these two facts 


2l6 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


upon his memory. He had thought of taking up the 
case. The Daily Globe-Herald had invited him to do 
so, but the Globe-Herald were notoriously tight- 
fisted, and fought every item of the most reasonable 
expense account. 

“Find out if he is visible, and, if he is, get my 
card to him.” 

The gateman beckoned a uniformed man, who 
was gone some time before he reappeared flourishing 
Downer’s card. 

“Will you step up, Mr. Downer?” 

Andy, in his white overall, was washing his hands 
when Downer came in. 

“Sit, will you, Downer. I’ve nothing for you in 
this case. The autopsy isn’t complete, but you can 
say that Sweizer has been arrested this morning as 
he was going aboard a French boat.” 

Andy bore no malice. The man had his living to 
get; he was indubitably painstaking, and had been, 
and could be again, of real help to the police. Be¬ 
sides which, he was telling him nothing. 

“I didn’t come to see you about the Sweizer case, 
and the news of his arrest is in the evening editions,” 
said Downer, tossing his cigar-butt into a waste- 
paper basket. “I came up to see you about Miss 
Nelson.” 

Andy finished drying his hands and hung up the 
towel. 

“I should have thought your interest in Miss Nel¬ 
son had evaporated by now,” he said. “What is 
the latest discovery?” 


MR. DOWNER FOLLOWS A LADY 217 


“She’s in town.” 

“Here?” 

Andy’s surprise was genuine. 

“Do you mean that she is living here, or that you 
saw her passing through?” 

“I don’t know where she lives, but for a fortnight 
she has been visiting a sick sailor at 73 Castle 
Street.” 

Andy was using an orange stick on his nails; he 
looked across at his informant. 

“At 73 Castle Street?” 

He gave Downer the impression that he was try¬ 
ing to collect his thoughts. Then: 

“A pretty poor neighbourhood, isn’t it?” 

Downer nodded. 

“I thought you would like to know. Somehow it 
didn’t strike me that you were aware of this.” 

Andy resumed his manicure. 

“There is no particular reason why she should 
not nurse a sick sailor at 73 Castle Street, is there?” 
he asked carefully. 

“Not at all,” said Downer. 

“I suppose you know that Miss Nelson had a 
nursing course? She did a lot of that kind of work 
during the war.” 

“I didn’t know,” said Downer, choosing a cigar 
from his packed case with some care. “Maybe she’s 
carrying on the good work.” 

“Very likely,” said Andy. 

Downer rose. 

“I thought of going to Beverley one day next 


218 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


week to see whether there are any loose threads that 
I could get hold of,” he suggested, and Andy smiled. 

“Your old pet thread will be difficult to grip,” he 
said significantly. 

“Wilmot?” 

Andy nodded. 

“He’s a queer fellow,” ruminated Downer, light¬ 
ing his cigar. “What does he do for a living? He 
has some sort of an office in town, hasn’t he?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never enquired.” 

“Isn’t there a possibility that he is Abraham 
Selim?” 

“That idea occurred to me, but I did not pursue 
it,” said Andrew. “Why not try your expert hand 
in that direction? It would make a fine story.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


AN INTERESTING INVALID 

Andy was glad when Downer had gone. The news 
the reporter had brought was startling. He had 
neither seen nor heard from Stella since he had left 
Beverley. A letter from her father had told him 
that she was staying with relations for a month, for 
apparently Kenneth Nelson was satisfied. It would 
be a simple matter for Andy to discover the identity 
of the sick sailor, but he shrank from spying upon 
the girl and whatever secret she had. He was even 
more reluctant to revive the painful unrest which he 
had experienced when he had returned to town. 
Life had lost a great deal of its colour and sweetness 
when she had gone out of his life. Pique? Per¬ 
haps he was piqued that she did not come to him 
in her trouble. He wished he had asked Downer 
about her hand. Was it bandaged still, he won¬ 
dered? Why hadn’t she told him everything? He 
had heard things from outside. That had hurt him. 

As to the sick sailor- He shrugged his shoul¬ 

ders. He found nothing significant in that episode. 
Stella was a law unto herself. If it pleased her to 
devote herself to the sick poor, that was a matter en¬ 
tirely for herself. And yet—he told himself that 
219 



220 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


he was curious to discover the identity of the in¬ 
valid. In reality, as he knew, he was hungry to see 
the girl again. 

He sat down to write her a letter, and succeeded 
in writing and destroying three before he came to 
his decision. She knew him well enough to believe 
that he would not spy on her, and that his intentions 
were not antagonistic. Having decided this much, 
the rest was easy. 

He put on his hat, and out of the laboratory 
walked at a leisurely pace in the direction of Castle 
Street. Even his leisure had a significance. It was 
consistent with an indefinite and haphazard call. He 
intended walking through the street; whether he 
would call or not he would decide when he got 
there. In reality, his decision had been taken, and 
he did not hesitate for a second before he raised 
the knocker of No. 73. 

He heard a whisper of voices and a creak on the 
stairs. A little interval, and then the door was 
opened. 

Stella’s jaw dropped at the sight of him. 

“Oh!” she said. It was the first time he had seen 
her embarrassed. “This is a surprise, Andrew,” 
she went on. “However did you find out where I 
was? I don’t live here. I’m just paying a visit.” 

She was jerky of speech and inconsequent. More 
noticeable was the fact that she stood square in the 
doorway and made no attempt to invite him inside. 

“I thought I’d look you up,” said Andrew quietly. 
“They told me you were nursing somebody here.” 


AN INTERESTING INVALID 221 


“Who told you? Father doesn’t know,” she said 
quickly. 

She had gone red and white again, and was so 
palpably distressed at having been found that, with 
a sick little feeling at his heart, he was on the point 
of turning away when she stopped him. 

“Will you wait here one moment?” she said. 

She went down the passage and into a room. 
Presently she came out again. 

“Come in,” she said. “I want to introduce you 
to my patient.” 

Andy hesitated for a second, and then followed 
her. She stood inside the room holding the door, 
and from where he stood in the passage he could 
only see the foot of a bed. 

“Come in,” she said again, and Andy entered. 

He stared’at the invalid, unable to believe his eyes. 
It was Scottie! 

“Well I’m damned!” said Andy, and his profanity 
was justified. 

Scottie did not look very ill, and, though he lay 
on the bed under a light coverlet, he was fully 
dressed. 

“What is the matter with you, Scottie?” 

“Malaria with complications,” said Scottie 
promptly. 

“What is the matter with him?” asked Andy. 

The girl looked at Scottie, then looked back at 
Andy again. 

“I suppose I shall have to tell you,” she said. 
“Scottie hurt himself,” she continued hurriedly. 


222 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“He didn’t want to go to a doctor, and, you see, I 
had a nursing course, and though it was a terrible 
wound, I managed to heal it.” 

Scottie nodded. 

“That’s right, Macleod. With all due respect to 
you, she is the only doctor I have ever had who 
worked a miracle.” 

“You’re hurt, are you?” said Andy slowly. “In 
the hand by any chance ?” 

Scottie nodded. 

“Not as the result of a pistol fired haphazard in 
the dark by an outraged householder, whose home 
had been burgled?” 

“Got it first time,” said Scottie cheerfully. “I 
happened to be in the park and stepped in the way of 
one of his projectiles.” 

“I see,” said Andy softly, and seeing, was re¬ 
lieved. “So it was your hand that was hurt, and 
Miss Nelson took you up to her room and bandaged 
it? I didn’t notice anything when you went away.” 

“I kept my hands in my pockets,” said Scottie. 
“It gave me a little extra hell, but it was worth it.” 

“You see, Andrew,” said the girl, laying her hand 
on his arm, “Mr. Scottie was badly hurt, and if he 
had gone to a doctor there would have been all sorts 
of stupid enquiries. The police were looking for a 
man with a hurt hand.” 

“So you burgled Beverley Hall, did you?” said 
Andy, sitting down and glowering at the unabashed 
Scottie. “What’s all this talk I heard about your 
reformation?” 


AN INTERESTING INVALID 223 


“It is working very well/' said Scottie agreeably. 
“The camouflage being no longer necessary, I will 
take my hand from beneath the counterpane and 
get up. The truth is, Macleod,” he said with con¬ 
vincing frankness, “I had an idea that the gent who 
held up you and Wilmot with a gun was a servant at 
the Hall, so I went up to investigate. I was anxious 
to get that marriage certificate back.” 

“What servant at the Hall ?” asked Andy. 

“I didn’t know then and I don’t know now which 
one, and maybe it would have been better if I had 
given you my views and you had conveyed them to 
Salter. That it was a servant at the Hall I am sure. 
I have seen him. After you told me about what 
happened at Wilmot’s place I slipped out of the house 
and got into Salter’s grounds. I’ve always had a 
theory that Merrivan’s murderer made his escape 
that way. In fact, my pet theory was that he was 
one of the gamekeepers, and so he is!” 

“What!” 

Scottie nodded. There was no doubt about his 
earnestness. 

“Don’t you see why it might have been? The 
gamekeepers were the only people who were around 
at night and who have the range of the estate to hide 
in. I told you about the man I saw sneaking in 
the trees. What I didn’t tell you was that he was 
dressed like a gamekeeper— Brown velvet coat 
and gaiters-” 

“Well, why didn’t you tell me ?” 

“Because I wanted to do a little private detective 



224 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


work myself,” said Scottie. “It would have tickled 
me to death if I could have come up to you and 
said: ‘Macleod, meet the murderer of Merrivan 
and Sweeny/ Conceit. I admit it. I am human.” 

“Well, what happened?” 

“I got into the park,” said Scottie, “and I made 
a bee-line for the house. Unless the lad who held 
you up went straight back I should see him, if my 
theory was correct. I did see him,” he said impres¬ 
sively, “I was lying under a bush when he came up. 
I could have put out my hand and touched him, but 
for certain reasons I didn’t. He went straight into 
the house.” 

“By which way?” asked Andy. 

“Through a window,” said the other. “The win¬ 
dow I opened afterwards, though I didn’t find it so 
easy. There was no light in the room when he 
pulled the window down after him. I thought I had 
missed him, but after a while he put on a light—the 
little lamp on Salter’s desk.” 

“That was the library?” 

Scottie nodded. 

“His back was towards me and he was leaning 
over the desk looking at something.” 

“Was he a gamekeeper?” 

“He was a gamekeeper,” agreed Scottie. “Which 
of the bunch I couldn’t swear to. I’ve never shot 
up the estate, though I’ve met a few brigands from 
Beverley that have.” 

Andrew stared at him. 

“Are you sure?” 


AN INTERESTING INVALID 225 


“Absolutely,” said Scottie. “I only saw him for 
a few seconds. He pulled open one drawer and then 
he pulled open another, and then, quite unexpectedly, 
he put the light out. I didn’t understand why he did 
this at first, but I soon found it out. I had only 
just time to dip down under the window when he 
came to it and pulled down the blind. Then the 
light went on again, and was on for about four or 
five minutes. After that time it went out, and I 
waited for a long while before I moved. You see, 
I expected him to come out by the front door, and 
that’s where I made a mistake. It was an hour be¬ 
fore I discovered that he had come out by the serv¬ 
ants’ hall. I worked my way round the house, and 
was wondering what I should do next, when a little 
door leading to the courtyard opened and a man 
came out. I guessed by his kit that he was my man, 
and I watched him out of sight.” 

“Did you see his face ?” 

Scottie shook his head. 

“It was much too dark,” he said. “He was a 
gamekeeper, and my gamekeeper, I’ll swear. After 
he’d gone I went back to the front and tried the 
window where he got in, but he had fastened it. It 
took me about a quarter of an hour to get it open, 
and I went straight to the library. I admit I made 
it untidy,” said Scottie, “but I’ll swear to you, 
Macleod, that I was not after loot. It is not my 
game to burgle a house unless I know where the 
stuff is to be found.” 

“I thought that, too, Scottie, but I can’t quite un- 


226 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


derstand why you made such a mess, as you call it.” 

“I don’t know myself,” said Scottie, “but I had 
an idea he had broken in to read Salter’s private 
papers, and I was mighty anxious to see what he 
could have been looking for.” 

“Did you burn anything?” 

“Did I what?” said Scottie in surprise. 

“Did you burn anything?” 

“No, I didn’t burn anything.” Scottie shook his 
head. “Why, was anything burnt?” 

“Go on with your story,” said Andy. 

“There isn’t much more to tell,” replied the other. 
“Like a fool I started loafing around the house and 
barged into Salter’s room. I wish I hadn’t,” he 
said ruefully, examining his bandaged hand. 

The girl’s eyes had been on Andy all the time. 
She had heard the story again and again. Now 
she added her narrative. 

“When Scottie came back and told me, I was aw- 
fully worried. I thought he really had been bur¬ 
gling. But when he explained he had been looking 
for the murderer I did all I could for him. He told 
me he would be caught because you were certain to 
notify the doctors in the neighbourhood to look for 
a man with a gun-shot wound, and when Mr. Scottie 
said he had a little house in town that he rented, I 
promised to come and dress his hand every day.” 

Andrew drew a long sigh. 

“My professional training induces me to call Scot¬ 
tie a liar. My instinct tells me he is speaking the 
truth,” he said. “Really, you people are almost as 


AN INTERESTING INVALID 227 


much a nuisance to me as Abraham Selim. Have 
you lost the use of your hand, Scottie?” 

“I have not,” said the other with satisfaction. 
“Sorry to disappoint you, Macleod, but my hand’s in 
thorough working order. The. bullet missed the 
bone and I am nearly well again. If you hadn’t 
come to-day, Macleod, you wouldn’t have seen me. 
And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“I had to come,” said Andy slowly. “Downer 
trailed you—at least, he trailed Miss Nelson. By 
the way, who is the gentleman upstairs?” 

Scottie looked guilty for a second. 

“He is a friend of mine,” he said carelessly, “an 
old college chum.” 

“Dartmoor College, or Pentonville Preparatory?” 
asked the sarcastic Andy, and Scottie smiled in¬ 
dulgently. 

“The stage lost something when you went in for 
doctoring, Macleod,” he said. “No, he is just an 
old friend. You wouldn’t know him, and don’t call 
him down,” he added hastily. “He’s much too 
shy!” 

The discreet Andy acceded to his request. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


MR. WILMOTHS PROFESSION 

Andy waited whilst the girl impressed upon Scottie 
for the twentieth time the necessity for dressing his 
hand twice a day and drilled into him the medicinal 
value in an array of lotions, powders, and ointments, 
and then he walked back with her to her lodgings. 

He was absurdly happy to see her again, even 
to meet her under these somewhat compromising 
circumstances, and happiness made him silent. She 
thought he was offended with her, and was disap¬ 
pointed. 

“Andrew/’ she said, speaking for the first time 
since they had left the house, “I did it because I 
thought you would want me to do it.” 

“Did what?” he said wifeh a start, emerging from 
his dreams. “Oh, looking after Scottie ? I think it 
was most noble of you, Stella. I realise that I am 
being feeble-minded in believing all that Scottie says, 
and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred his story 
of the murderous gamekeeper would be bunkum. 
Somehow, though I know he would lie to me, I am 
pretty certain that he would not lie to you. I am 
going down to Beverley Green again,” he said. “The 
gamekeeper gives me an excuse.” 

228 


MR. WILMOT’S PROFESSION 229 


“Do you want an excuse?” she asked, looking 
up at him, and dropping her eyes almost as quickly. 

“No,” he said slowly, after a pause, “I don’t think 
I do.” 

“Come down to-night,” she said, and instantly re¬ 
gretted her impulsiveness. 

“I was thinking of doing that,” said Andy, “but 
it had occurred to me that it would look less— 


She flushed. 

“You mean if we went back together after going 
away the same day?” she said quietly. “It is curi¬ 
ous how things like that occur to men before they 
occur to women. I suppose I have no sense of 
propriety. Now you must wait here, Andrew, 
whilst I pack my bag—which you can carry.” 

He walked up and down outside the little house 
where she had taken lodgings, peace in his heart and 
a glowing sense of triumph that his greatest suc¬ 
cesses had never brought to him. 

Something of the same happiness possessed Stella 
Nelson as she packed her suit-case in frantic haste, 
for fear she should keep him waiting too long. 
There was a bill to be settled with her landlady, and 
Stella fretted whilst that good woman went in search 
of change. It was five minutes before she came 
back, and Stella, not waiting to count the silver she 
had given her, picked up her case and walked out of 
the house. 

She looked up and down the street in dismay. 
Andy had disappeared. She waited ten minutes be- 



230 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


fore she despatched a boy in search of a cab, and 
when the cab came and she had put her baggage in¬ 
side she could have wept. 

Andy, pacing the pavement before the house, was 
so completely absorbed in his thoughts that the im¬ 
pression he received of his surrounding was of the 
faintest. On the opposite side of the street was a 
high wall, behind which the glass skylight of a work¬ 
shop showed. It was evidently part of one of the 
shops in the High Street, the back of which he could 
see from where he stood. In the wall was a small 
door, and he was looking abstractedly at this when 
it opened and a man came out, followed by a bare¬ 
headed woman. She was smartly dressed, and they 
stood for a moment in consultation before, with a 
little nod, she went back, closing the door behind 
her, and the man set off at a smart pace towards 
the main road. 

Andrew’s interest was an idle one. He would 
have watched two sparrows fighting with a concern 
as great. It was not until the man, reaching the 
corner, turned to beckon something (a cab, thought 
Andy) that all his senses were awake. It was Ar¬ 
thur Wilmot! Never before had he seen that young 
man in town, and, though he had set enquiries on 
foot, he had not discovered the mysterious business 
which brought Arthur so regularly to the city. He 
looked round, hoping to see the girl, but he knew 
that she could not have finished her packing. It 
was an opportunity too good to be lost, and, al- 


MR. WILMOT S PROFESSION 231 


though it was a wrench, he turned reluctantly and 
crossed the road as Wilmot jumped into the car he 
had summoned. Stella would understand. He 
would explain to her to-morrow. Such a chance 
might not occur again, he thought. Nevertheless, 
Andrew wished Arthur Wilmot at the bottom of the 
sea. 

He called a taxi to him as the car drove off. 

“Follow that car,” he said. 

Stella’s home-coming had been a disappointing ex¬ 
perience. She was glad to be back at Beverley 
Green, almost as glad as Kenneth Nelson was to see 
her. He fussed around her, took her to the studio 
to show her a new picture, and produced a glowing 
record of the new cook’s economy and efficiency, 
and yet she felt dispirited and amazingly lonely. 
The note which she found waiting for her from 
Arthur Wilmot, and which she read without realis¬ 
ing that he was the writer, neither added to nor 
relieved her gloom. 

“Now tell me all about what you have been do¬ 
ing,” said Kenneth, beaming. “People have been en¬ 
quiring about you, but I told them you had gone 
in for an extra nursing course. By the way, what 
made you take it up again, my dear? I suppose 
you were bored, and I don’t wonder. Did you see 
our mutual friend Macleod?” 

“I saw him for a moment,” she said briefly. 

“People have stopped talking about poor Mer- 
rivan,” Mr. Nelson rattled on, “and I must say it is 


232 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


a relief. Arthur Wilmot is selling the house— 
there was no will, by the way. A curious fellow, 
Wilmot. He glares at me every time I meet him, 
as though he had any cause for offence, by gad! 
He’s a lucky fellow I didn’t meet him the night that 
infernal reporter-” 

She listened without hearing. Beverley *Green 
would be very different without Andy. She could 
not realise what it would be like, and yet she had 
spent nearly three years in the village before she had 
known him. But she was only a child then (she 
was immeasurably superior to those adolescent 
days), a woman now. Andy was necessary. 

She almost wished, she thought whimsically, that 
she had asked Scottie to come down and commit a 
burglary—just a little burglary, where nothing really 
valuable was stolen, but which woulcf necessitate the 
permanent return of Andrew Macleod. She made 
a mental calculation; if every house in the Green 
was burgled, he would only be there three months, 
supposing there was a sufficient interval between 
each crime, and probably Scottie would be bored too. 
Bur Scottie was reformed. She had a little warm 
feeling of satisfaction at the thought that she had 
been responsible for his reformation. 

At one time she had hated Andy. She recalled 
this period with satisfaction, and strove again, with¬ 
out success, to remember just how she felt. Andy 
was not coming back. He had thought things out 
whilst she was in the house, and he had decided to 



MR. WILMOT’S PROFESSION 233 


break off the friendship then and there. It had been 
cruel of him to go away without a word—moral 
cowardice on his part. 

“I am going over to the Sheppards to play bridge. 
Will you come? They’ll be delighted if you will,” 
said Nelson. 

She shook her head. 

“No, thank you, father, but please go.” 

She was glad to be alone in her present mood. Of 
course, Andy had not believed Scottie’s story. All 
the time, when he was being so pleasant to her, he 
was secretly disapproving, and had seized the mo¬ 
ment of her departure to run away. She couldn’t 
imagine Andy running away from anything. It 
was inconsistent with her knowledge of him. But, 
then, she had made so many mistakes about men. 
Take Arthur Wilmot, for example; her error there 
had been disastrous. She wished she could hate 
Andy again. After all, she had only helped Scottie 
because she thought she was helping him. 'The ac¬ 
quaintance, the friendship, could not end this way. 
She would write to him. 

She had got as far as “Dear Dr. Macleod” when 
the maid came through to open the door. Stella had 
not heard the faint tinkle of the bell, and then she 
looked up into the smiling face of Andy, and, re¬ 
gardless of the maid, who was hurrying to obliterate 
herself, ran at him and caught him by the arms. 

“You did come? You are a brute, Andy! Why 
did you leave me ?” 


2 34 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“I'm all you say and worse, but I’ve come with 
the loveliest story—something that will amuse you, 
Stella.” 

Evidently it appealed to Andy. His laughter 
filled the room. 

“I don’t want to be amused,” she said obstinately. 
“I want to be mollified. I was just writing you a 
terrible letter. No, you can’t see it!” 

But he snatched up the paper. 

“Dear Dr. Macleod,” he mimicked. “I should 
have answered you with even greater dignity.” 

“Tell me all the amusing news. I am glad to see 
you,” she breathed. “Why did you leave me, 
Andy?” 

. “Because I saw Arthur Wilmot behaving as mys¬ 
teriously as a stage criminal. I just had to find out 
what this secret business of his was. Do you know 
Flora?” 

“Flora?” She frowned. “Flora who?” 

“Have you never heard of Flora? I thought her 
name was famous amongst women.” 

“I know Flora the milliner,” she said. 

He nodded. 

“Flora the milliner,” he said solemnly, “is Ar¬ 
thur Wilmot!” 

She gasped. 

“Arthur Wilmot! Oh, that’s too ridiculous. 
Arthur doesn’t know anything about hats.” 

“On the contrary, he is an authority,” he 
chuckled. “A little time ago I went into his house, 
saw a woman’s hat in course of making lying on 


MR. WILMOT’S PROFESSION 235 


the table, and drew the worst possible conclusions. 
That is Arthur’s secret. He is a man milliner; 
he is, in fact, Flora. He has three stores in town, 
and I followed him from one to the other. Ap¬ 
parently he always goes round in the evening to 
check the takings. Of course, there is no reason in 
the world why he shouldn’t be a milliner.” 

“Wait,” she said, and went to’her desk. 

She returned with a letter. 

“This was waiting for me when I got back,” she 
said. 

It was a stiff little note, in which Mr. Arthur 
Wilmot presented his compliments to Miss Nelson 
and requested her to furnish his lawyer with par¬ 
ticulars of any financial transactions she may have 
had with the late Mr. Darius Merrivan. 

Andy read it through. 

“As Scottie says, What a lady!’” he said vul- 
garly. 

They saw Arthur Wilmot the next morning at the 
golf club, and he greeted them with a haughty 
little bow. 

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Stella sweetly. 
“I had your note.” 

He went very red. 

“Perhaps you would discuss it with Vetch,” he 
said gruffly as he began to move off to the first tee. 

“Oh, Flora!” murmured the girl in a low voice, 
but not so low that Mr. Arthur Wilmot did not 
hear her. 

He played a bad game for the rest of the day. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 

Mr. Downer was passing the police station at Sea 
Beach on the way to his bungalow when his eye 
was attracted to a notice that was pasted on the 
board outside the station. 

It occupied a central position amidst other adver¬ 
tisements dealing with bodies found, absconding 
cashiers, and particulars of men wanted by the po¬ 
lice, and he had not read two words before he real¬ 
ised that he had already perused the poster in town. 

“Information is Required Concerning 
Abraham Selim ( Alias Wentworth) 

“Wanted in connection with the murders of Darius 
Merrivan and John Albert Sweeny, on the night of the 
24th. of June. 

“Selim is a moneylender, and is believed to be a man 
of fifty-five. He has a stoop and wears gold-rimmed 
glasses, and is clean-shaven. He may endeavour to 
change cheques signed ‘J os - Wentworth/ but he is 
probably in possession of large sums of money. Any 
information that will lead to his detention will be re¬ 
warded, and should be laid with Dr. A. Macleod, Police 
Headquarters, or with the inspector in charge of this 
station/’ 


236 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 237 


Mr. Downer read and was annoyed. Anything 
that reminded him of the Beverley Green murder 
annoyed him. He had confidently believed that he 
had found the solution when Arthur Wilmot had 
told him in the greatest confidence (“You can trust 
me, my dear sir,” said the virtuous Downer) that 
Stella Nelson had visited the house on the night of 
the murder. 

If matters had followed the hoped-for course Mr. 
Downer would have been as near to being a happy 
man as it was possible for him to reach. He did 
not dislike Stella. In a faint, misty kind of way he 
admired her. He knew what to admire in women 
as he knew what to admire in architecture. Nor 
would it have given him any personal gratification 
if he had ruined Andrew Macleod. He honestly 
liked Andy. Only in business hours he had no 
friends. If Downer’s fiancee (supposing he had 
such an appendage) had been murdered by his best 
friend his first instinct would have been to esti¬ 
mate the news value of the occurrence. He would 
have been bitterly unhappy, but he would have 
described the victim’s funeral and the murderer’s 
execution with taste and judgment. He was an 
ideal reporter, a model for all juniors, and deserved 
the respect he had earned. 

His bungalow was on the sea-shore. It consisted 
of a living-room, a bedroom, bath, and kitchen. 
There was a broad wooden verandah with hooks 
for a hammock, and a ten-by-twenty “garden” where 
chrysanthemums grew wild in the autumn. 


238 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

So he was told. He had never occupied the bun¬ 
galow after summer, so he did* not know. He 
opened .the windows, pulled a basket chair on to 
the stoop, and lit a gas-ring under a kettle. The 
rooms were furnished plainly but comfortably, and 
twice a week (as arranged by contract) the widow 
of a fisherman came in to dust and clean. 

From his bag Mr. Downer produced a wad of 
copy-paper and certain galley-proofs. He was at 
the moment completing his greatest work Some The¬ 
oretical Solutions of Undiscovered Crimes he called 
it, in the manner of a scientist. His publisher, hav¬ 
ing a large family to keep and being naturally anx¬ 
ious to make money from the work, had re-chris- 
tened it Light on Mystery Murders. 

Amongst the manuscript there was a letter from 
the publisher received by Mr. Downer that morning. 

“If you could only include the Beverley murder 
the sales would be immense. We want something 
hot and strong. The public would eat a good theory 
in regard to that crime.” 

Vulgarity in a publisher is rare, but such things 
have been known. 

“Oh, damn the Beverley murder!” said Mr. 
Downer irritably. 

He might thus condemn it, yet not evade its in¬ 
trusive interruption to his thoughts. When he sat 
on his wicker chair, and examined the sea impar¬ 
tially (as he did), or when he strode determinedly 
along the hard sand of the beach, the point of his um¬ 
brella leaving a miniature shaft at every two paces, 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 239 


or when he lay in bed and glared at the text over the 
door, the legacy of a former possessor which Mr. 
Downer had not troubled to remove, it mattered 
little what subject occupied his mind, whether it was 
the need for a new summer suit or the reckless call¬ 
ing of his bridge partners, into the current of his 
meditations bobbed and spun the crime of Beverley 
Green. 

Two men had been murdered. Presumably the 
slayer was one Abraham Selim, whose habits were 
unknown, whose very appearance was beyond iden¬ 
tification. Abraham or X—he could not be con¬ 
sidered except as an impersonality—could never be 
found, because for all practical purposes he did not 
exist. Mr. Downer had dismissed all idea of Stella’s 
guilt. Wise man that he was, he saw that the most 
suspicious feature so far as she was concerned was 
Andy’s desire to shield her. 

And—here he was, thinking about that infernal 
case, he told himself irritably, and turned over in 
bed seeking yet another hour’s sleep, although the 
sun was up and gilding the wall with rods of gold 
that expanded and contracted as the sea-breezes 
moved the blind. But he had done with sleep. He 
got up and, finding his slippers, went into the kitchen 
and began the preparation of his breakfast. By the 
time he had had his bath the kettle lid was rattling 
urgently and the bacon he had left under the low- 
turned griller was curved and crisp. 

It was only then that he went into the sitting- 
room and pulled up the blinds. 


240 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Good Lord!” said Mr. Downer. 

Sitting in the basket-chair on the verandah, his 
back toward him, was a man. He was well dressed; 
the one polished shoe that Downer could see had 
the covering of a white spat, the hand nearest to 
him was gloved, and rested on the golden head of a 
malacca cane. Mr. Downer unbolted and unlocked 
his door and walked out. He had strong views of 
the sanctity of property and the reprehensibility of 
trespass. 

“Excuse me,” he said, in a tone which implied 
that if any excuse was called for it was not from 
him. “You’ve made a mistake. Why, Mr. Boyd 
Salter!” 

Mr. Salter rose with his shrewd, cheerful smile 
and held out a gloved hand. 

“Will you forgive me for this liberty, Mr. 
Downer? Unpardonable of me, I’m sure. But I 
remember that when you came to see me at the Hall 
—I fear I kept you waiting a long time, but it was 
one of my bad days—you said you had a bungalow 
at Sea Beach and I told you that—er—Sea Beach 
belongs to my family—more than half the land.” 
He followed his host indoors. 

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said 
Mr. Downer with great heartiness. “I must apolo¬ 
gise for my scanty attire, but I’ve only just got up.” 

“Pray not a word.” Mr. Salter raised a protest¬ 
ing hand. “The apology is due from me. It is a 
warm morning and green pyjamas harmonise so 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 241 


perfectly with this charming little room. I was 
afraid I had come too early, but—er—it is eleven 
o’clock, and Sea Beach is only an hour’s run from 
Beverley.” 

Whilst Mr. Downer sought a few articles of cloth¬ 
ing his visitor surveyed the room dispassionately. 

“I was only saying to myself yesterday,” said Mr. 
Downer through the half-opened door of his bed¬ 
room, “what a pity I shan’t have another excuse for 
seeing Mr. Boyd Salter. I see a great many people 
in the course of my professional duties, and very 
few impress me. That sounds as if I am trying to 
flatter. I wouldn’t be such a fool as to butter a man 
of your experience, and, if you don’t mind my say¬ 
ing so, your age. But probably you have felt that 
yourself, Mr. Salter?” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Salter earnestly, “and 
I assure you that I should ‘not have intruded into 
your delightful little home-” 

“A mere rabbit-hutch,” said Mr. Downer dis¬ 
paragingly, “but I am a simple man, with simple 
tastes.” 

“A charming little pied-a-terre said the other 
graciously, “but I should not have come if I had 
not recognised certain appealing qualities in you, 
Mr. Downer.” 

Mr. Downer had seldom in his life been flattered. 
It was a novel experience for one whose chief asset 
was his skilful employment of the flattering word 
to find himself smeared with a little of his own 



242 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


oleaginous unguent. And he was more than inter¬ 
ested, because this visit meant business. Mr. Boyd 
Salter, for all his prejudice in his favour, was not 
making an early morning call for the pleasure of 
looking upon Mr. Downer’s hard features or listen¬ 
ing to Mr. Downer’s soft phrases. 

“I suppose you wonder why I have come?” 

Mr. Downer did. 

“In a sense, yes,” he said. “I can only hope that 
you want me to render you some small service. If 
that is the case you are doubly welcome.” 

“Not a small service.” Salter shook his head 
gently. “On the contrary, a great service. The 
only thing I am worried about is whether I shall 
offend you.” 

Mr. Downer smiled so broadly that he had to 
refix his glasses. 

“I am a difficult man to offend,” he said truly. 

Mr. Boyd Salter pursed his lips and stroked his 
short-clipped grey moustache. 

“Well, it is this,” he said at last. “I am going to 
take the unpardonable liberty of asking you to ac¬ 
cept a commission which really should be offered to 
a detective agency. Now I’ve offended you?” 

“No, you haven’t,’” said Mr. Downer. “You 
must remember that my work is almost parallel with 
that of a private detective. He reports to his em¬ 
ployer ; I report, in perhaps a little better English and 
at greater length, to the public.” 

“And with greater accuracy,” acknowledged Mr. 
Salter. “And that is why I have come to you in 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 243 


preference to employing one of those agency people. 
You are sure you are not offended?” 

Mr. Downer was very sure. 

“If you had told me that I was asking you to do 
something which you, as a member of the great pro¬ 
fession of letters, considered derogatory to your 
dignity and your calling, I should have understood. 
Out of your kindness, however, you have not re¬ 
pulsed me.” 

He smiled and Mr. Downer smiled too. 

“What I want you to do is this. You were en¬ 
gaged in investigating the Beverley Green murder. 
For reasons which, I presume, were purely profes¬ 
sional you relinquished your work. I imagine that 
it was no longer a profitable occupation. Forgive 
me if I adduce the lowest motive for your retire¬ 
ment. You are a professional man living by your 
pen, and I imagine that your movements and preoc¬ 
cupations are dictated by the arbitrary will of your 
employers, your editors and publishers, or whatever 
they are.” 

Mr. Downer nodded. He remembered his curt 
letter of recall and the distressing smallness of his 
cheque. 

“Suppose I* ask you to go down to Beverley Green 
and re-open your enquiries ? I want to know more 
than I know at present. Particularly”—he spoke 
very deliberately—“do I wish to discover the secret 
of the burglary at the Hall. What was behind it? 
Was our friend Dr. Macleod privy to that—er— 
crime ? What does Dr. Macleod know that I do not 


244 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


know? Has he any information concerning Abra¬ 
ham Selim that he has not communicated to his 
superiors? Where is Miss Stella Nelson?” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Downer. “I think I can begin 
right away by imparting information.” 

He told the story of the house in Castle Street and 
Stella’s mysterious visits thereto. 

“Who is the invalid?” asked Boyd Salter, but 
here his new employee had not pursued his enquiries. 

“I think you will find that it is the man who 
broke into my house,” said Salter, and the other 
glared at him through his glasses. 

“Of course! Now why didn’t that occur to me ?” 

“Find out for certain. I may be wrong, but 
somehow, when I jump to conclusions I am usually 
right, Mr. Downer. I do know that she and the 
man—Scottie I think his name is—went away on the 
same day. Scottie is probably the burglar. He is 
wounded if he is that rascal. But remember this— 
I do not wish that Dr. Macleod should know that 
you are conducting investigations. I don’t know 
how you will manage it, and I would not be so im¬ 
pertinent as to offer you any suggestion.” 

“You may rely upon me, Mr. Boyd Salter,” said 
Downer. 

His employer took from his waistcoat pocket a 
folded paper and put it on the table. 

“There will be certain expenses incurred,” he 
said. “Regard this as on that account, please.” 

Mr. Downer came to the end of the verandah to 


A MORNING AT SEA BEACH 245 


watch his visitor enter the car that was waiting for 
him on the Beach Road. Then he went back to his 
room and unfolded the paper. It was a bank-note of 
considerable value, and Mr. Downer smiled. 

“I think I’ll go back to town,” he mused, and put 
the flat-iron on the gas-ring. He always pressed 
his own trousers. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” said Scottie sternly. 

“You haven’t grown religious too, have you, Mr. 
Scottie?” asked Big Martin in some anxiety. 

Scottie was sitting on his bed in the little house 
in Castle Street, and his companion was that same 
attendant who had scuttled upstairs at the sound 
of Andy’s knock. He was not naturally of a retir¬ 
ing disposition, but before announcing the arrival of 
Andrew Macleod he had, in his argot, taken a 
“dekko” at the visitor through the front-room win¬ 
dow. And the “dekko” had produced a slight pal¬ 
pitation of heart. 

He was called “Big” Martin because his height 
did not exceed four feet six inches, and there was a 
time when there wasn’t a handier man than Big 
Martin for getting through a small scullery window 
in the profession. 

Of late, however, good living had broadened him 
sideways and frontways, and, like many another 
specialist, he found now that his special qualities 
which had given him an advantage over his fellows 
had failed, and he was wholly unfitted for the gen¬ 
eral practice of his calling. 

Scottie he had served in many capacities.. He 
246 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 247 

was an indefatigable reader of newspapers and a 
remarkable collector of information, and could re¬ 
connoitre a house with greater acumen than anybody 
Scottie had known in the course of a long and in¬ 
teresting career. 

It was Big Martin who peddled buttons at kitchen 
doors and heard all the domestic gossip which was 
so useful to his various employers. 

Scottie was above this kind of work. He had 
specialised in dealers in precious stones, and that re¬ 
quired a more highly efficient intelligence depart¬ 
ment than Big Martin could supply. Yet Big Mar¬ 
tin was useful. He maintained the establishment in 
Castle Street during Scottie’s absences, he ran er¬ 
rands, made beds, and could at a pinch cook a simple 
meal. 

“No, I haven’t got religious,” admitted Scottie, 
breathing on his spectacles and polishing them with 
a corner of the sheet, “but I have got careful. Have 
you ever heard the tale about the pitcher and the 
well?” 

“No,” said Big Martin suspiciously. “Is there 
a catch in it?” 

“There is a catch in it,” said the other grimly, 
and added: “I have made enough money to live 
quietly.” 

Mr. Martin wrinkled his face. 

“If you don’t do it somebody else will,” he said. 
“She’s asking for it, walking about with all them 
diamonds.” 

It was Fate, thought Scottie. 


248 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“You needn’t tell me anything about her,” he in¬ 
terrupted the intelligence department. “I’ve met her 
socially. Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor, near-American. 
Suite 907, Great Metropolitan Hotel.” 

“A bank couldn’t buy her pearls,” urged Big Mar¬ 
tin. “They’re as big as that.” He made an “o” of 
his forefinger and thumb. “Diamonds! You never 
saw anything like it, Mr. Scottie.” 

“I know; but she keeps them in the hotel safe,” 
suggested Scottie, and the other made a discouraging 
noise. 

“Not she! My cousin’s in the kitchen there, 
that’s how I got to hear about it. She peels 
potatoes.” 

“Who, Mrs. Bonsor?” 

“No, my cousin.” 

Scottie was thoughtful. His fingers were busily 
playing a tune on his knee and his gaze was absent. 

“No, I don’t think so, Martin,” he said. “Mac- 

leod would know it was me, and besides-” He 

hesitated and was about to speak, and changed his 
mind. 

Big Martin would not understand his views in 
relation to Stella Nelson. It would be untrue to say 
that Scottie was reformed, or, if he was reformed, 
that he harboured any penitence for his past ill- 
deeds. The principal factor in whatever reforma¬ 
tion had come about was the factor of personal 
safety. There was really no reason why he should 
take the risk. He was fairly well off. The Regent 



MEETING MRS. RONSOR 


249 


Street haul had sold well—one of the purchasers 
was a witness who helped to prove his alibi—and he 
had got another nest-egg which, together with his 
more recent acquisitions, would keep him in com¬ 
parative comfort all the days of his life. 

‘Til go and have another look at this Mrs. Bon- 
sor,” he said, and Martin rubbed his hands joyously. 
“Not that I believe she’s such a hell-fired fool as 
you make her out to be. Where does she come 
from?” 

“Saint Barbara,” said the other. 

“Santa Barbara, so she does,” corrected Scottie. 
“She told me—maybe she knows some friends of 
mine on the Pacific slope. And talking of friends, 
Big ’un, I saw you last night coming out of Finna- 
gin’s with a perfect gentleman.” 

Big Martin looked uncomfortable. 

“He’s a reporter,” he said. 

“What a bit of news!” said Scottie sarcastically. 
“As if I didn’t know he was a reporter. What did 
he want?” 

“It was about a job I was on four years ago,” 
said Big Martin. “I got eighteen months for it— 
Harry Weston’s job.” 

“I know it, and if he hadn’t remembered it he 
would have looked it up. Any cop would have given 
him particulars and saved him that trouble. Well?” 

“He was quite friendly; asked me what had be¬ 
come of Harry. We just chatted.” 

Scottie’s lip curled. 


250 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“As if he didn’t know that Harry is doing seven 
years in Parkhurst! Well, you chatterer, what did 
you chat about ?” 

Big Martin was now thoroughly alarmed. What 
had he said ? 

“If I die this minute I didn’t say anything about 
you. He knew you were here and asked how your 
hand was.” Scottie groaned. “But I didn’t tell 
him. He’s a good friend of yours, Scottie; said 
that if you was ever in trouble to send for him. 
Those were his very words.” 

“Take ’em, tie ’em up, and hand ’em to him,” said 
Scottie. “You didn’t tell him that Maeleod knew 
all about it, did you?” 

“He didn’t want telling,” said the other with 
satisfaction. 

“You never could hold anything in your head,” 
said Scottie, resigned, and began to change. 

He dressed himself with care, found at the bot¬ 
tom of a box a small case filled with cards, and 
selected one. It described him as Professor Belling¬ 
ham, and the address was Pantagalla, Alberta. 
There was no such town on the map as Pantagalla, 
but he had once lived in a suburban boarding-house 
which bore that name, and it seemed sufficiently 
Canadian. 

The reception clerk at the Great Metropolitan dis¬ 
covered that Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was in and the 
bell-boy carried his card to her, during which time 
Scottie sat in an easy chair, seemingly absorbed in 
his thoughts, but in reality watching every man that 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 


251 

entered or left the vestibule. The hotel detective he 
spotted at once. He wore that strained expression 
which all hotel detectives adopt, and is never wholly 
absent from the face of any detective. 

Presently the bell-boy came back and conducted 
him to the third floor, ushering him into an expen¬ 
sive suite ( Scottie knew exactly how much per diem 
that suite cost). 

The lady who was standing by the window look¬ 
ing out turned at the entrance of Scottie. 

“Good-morning,” she said briskly, “Mr.-” 

“Professor Bellingham,” said Scottie deferen¬ 
tially. “We met before, you remember?” 

“We surely did. I couldn’t read your card with¬ 
out my glasses,” she said. “Sit down, Professor. 
Now, isn’t it nice of you to look me up?” 

It was Scottie’s experience that nobody was quite 
like what they were when he met them before, but he 
was not prepared for the surprising, sameness of 
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor. If -anything she was now 
more expensively garnished than when he had seen 
her lolling in her large car. Her jewels were mag¬ 
nificent. When she raised her hand it glittered as a 
jeweller’s window display. There must have been a 
ring on every finger, and there was certainly three 
diamond bracelets on one arm which must have been 
worth a fortune. 

All Scottie’s old predatory instincts were aroused. 
It was a sin and a shame that this woman should 
have all these wonderful possessions, whilst he eked 
out a bare existence. 



THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


252 

“I thought I’d come along and see you, Mrs. 
Crafton-Bonsor,” he drawled. “I’m from Panta- 
galla, and seeing you were from Santa Barbara, 
why, I thought it would be neighbourly to come 
along and say how-do-you-do. I know Santa Bar¬ 
bara very well—knew it before you rich people took 
it up and spoilt it. Ha, ha! My little joke, Mrs. 
Bonsor!” 

“It’s real kind of you, Professor-” 

“Bellingham,” he suggested. 

“Professor Bellingham. It is such a nuisance, 
my maid has mislaid my glasses, and I am as blind 
as a bat without them. It is a lonely city this. I 
was here some years ago, but it is all new and 
strange to me now, and I shall be glad to get back 
home again.” 

“Have you been here long?” 

“For a fortnight,” said the woman, “and I 
haven’t met a single nice person since I have been 
here. They are a lot of stuck-up people. I guess 
they haven’t a cent to their names. Why, I called 
on a woman I met in San Francisco and the Senator 
was real nice to her, and they didn’t ask me to stay 
to tea—not that I drink tea,” she added. 

Scottie could well understand that Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor was not regarded as a social acquisition in 
spite of her wealth. 

They chatted about Santa Barbara, about people 
(whose names fortunately Scottie knew) in San 
Francisco, and Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor returned to her 
favourite topic, which was the inhospitable character 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 


253 

of the people in foreign countries and the deteriora¬ 
tion of the servant class. 

“Why, this room is supposed to have been dusted 
this morning,” she said, flicking a piece of fluff from 
the chair on which she was sitting. “Look at that 
—not a brush has touched it!” 

Scottie was silent. 

Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor could not read his card be¬ 
cause of her defective eyesight and yet she was pick¬ 
ing minute specks of fluff from the chair without 
any visible effort. Some curious eye disease, he de¬ 
cided, and never gave the matter another thought. 

He made himself agreeable to such an extent that 
he was invited to come to dinner that night. 

“I dine in my suite,” she said. “The trash that 
you find in hotel dining-rooms certainly gets my 
goat.” 

As he came down the steps of the hotel, a little 
jubilant with the success of his preliminary visit, 
somebody tapped him on the arm, and he looked 
round into a familiar face. 

“Andy wants you,” said the detective. “He told 
me to ask you to step up to headquarters.” 

Scottie gave an impatient click of his lips but said 
nothing. 

“Hullo, Scottie. Better? Take a seat, won’t 
you? One of my men saw you were calling on 
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor, the rich American woman at 
the Great Metropolitan. What’s the idea?” 

“Can’t a man have his social recreations?” said 
Scottie, grieved. 




2 54 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“All that you want, and more,” said Andy 
brightly, “but I am acting in your own interests 
when I pull you in. This woman is a walking Kim¬ 
berley diamond mine, and I hate to see you fall into 
temptation. By the way, Eve just come back from 
Beverley Green,” he added carelessly. “Miss Nel¬ 
son was -asking kindly after you.” 

Scottie licked his lips. 

“That is very good of Miss Nelson,” he said 
slowly, “and about this diamond woman, Macleod. 
My intentions are strictly honourable. You don’t 
know what a comfort it is to get near to so much 
money or you wouldn’t grudge me these few em(K 
tions.” 

“I grudge you nothing, Scottie,” said Andy 
quietly, “but we’ve had her under observation since 
she came to town. We’ve already warned off two 
old friends of yours, Harry Murton and Dutch 
John, and it wouldn’t be fair to you if I let you 
think you were working free from the observations 
of guardian angels.” 

Scottie was silent. 

“Does that mean I can’t go and see her again?” 

“You can go and see her as often as you like,” 
said Andy, “but if she comes here with a squeal 
about the diamond tiara that you were admiring only 
a few minutes before you left, and which has mys¬ 
teriously disappeared, why, Scottie, I shall put you 
on the file!” 

A slow smile dawned on Scottie’s face. 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 


255 

“Hasn’t anybody told you I am reformed?” he 
asked innocently. 

“I’ve heard about it,” replied Andy with a laugh. 
“Scottie, I’m serious. I don’t want to see you get 
into trouble, and I think, in the circumstances, that 
Mrs. Bonsor is a dangerous acquaintance. Your 
morals are my first consideration,” he said piously. 
“You can certainly see her as often as you like, but 
it is a little dangerous, isn’t it? Suppose some 
other hook gets busy and there is a lacunae in the 
jewel case-” 

“What’s that fellow ‘lacunae’?” asked Scottie in¬ 
terested. 

Andy explained. 

“So you see.” 

“Thank you, Macleod,” Scottie gathered up his 
hat and got up. “I still think I’ll see her. She 
is fascinating. Apart from her jewellery, I mean. 
Have you met her?” 

“No, I have not met her. She is not in my de¬ 
partment,” said Andy. “Steel is away on a holiday, 
and I am taking his place, luckily for you, because 
Steel wouldn’t have given you half a chance.” 

“Thank you,” said Scottie again, “and by the way, 
Macleod, that reporter Downer is alive and active.” 

This was no news to Andy. 

“So I know,” he said. “He has returned to Bev¬ 
erley—or rather, to a village a mile or two out. Has 
he been after you?” 

Scottie nodded. 



256 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“He’s pumping a friend of mine. You know that 
he’s wise to Miss Nelson at Castle Street? You do? 
What a sleuth you are, Macleod. So long.” 

That night he walked boldly into the Great Metro¬ 
politan, though he knew he was being watched, and 
the evening was a pleasant one. Mrs. Bonsor had 
taken to him, and laid herself out to give her profes¬ 
sor a good time. He learned incidentally that the 
“Senator,” her husband, was not really a Senator 
at all. He gathered it was a name bestowed iron¬ 
ically by certain citizens of California. This in¬ 
formation cleared the way to a better understanding. 
Scottie had been puzzled to account for an educated 
man having married a woman of this character. 
She talked about her palatial home in Santa Bar¬ 
bara, of her cars, her servants, her garden-parties, 
and every time she moved she scintillated. 

“Scottie’s been to see that Bonsor woman three 
times,” reported a watcher. “He dines with her 
every night and took a joy-ride with her this after¬ 
noon.” 

Andy nodded. 

“Put a man on to Big Martin and see if there’s a 
job in progress.” 

He liked Scottie as an individual, but officially 
Scottie was a possible menace to human security. 
One afternoon a police officer called on Mrs. Bonso'r, 
and when Scottie came to dinner that night, resplen¬ 
dent in a new dress-suit, her manner was cold and 
her attitude distinctly distant. 


MEETING MRS. BONSOR 


257 


“I nearly didn’t let you up at all, mister,” she 
said. (It was ominous that she called him “mis¬ 
ter.”) “But I thought I would have a little talk 
with you. The bulls are after you.” 

“After me?” said Scottie. 

He was annoyed, but not resentful. It was the 
duty of the police to warn this woman, and he had 
rather wondered how long Andy would let him go 
before he did his duty. 

“They say you are a crook called Scottie.” She 
shook her head reprovingly. “I can only tell you 
that I am very much hurt.” 

“Why?” asked Scottie calmly. “I haven’t stolen 
anything of yours, and I would never take so much 
as a hairpin from your beautiful head.” 

Yes, Scottie said this, and, in a sense, meant it. 

“I admit that I am called Scottie. It is not my 
name, but it is good enough to identify me in two 
or three countries. I admit that I am a crook, but 
do you realise what it means, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” 
he said with a quaver in his voice, “for a man like 
myself to meet a woman like you, a woman of the 
world, young, comparatively speaking, certainly in 
the prime of life, who takes an interest in a—a—an 
adventurer? It isn’t your money or your jewels. 
They don’t mean anything to me. I could have 
got ’em the first day I met you, lady,” he went on 
recklessly. “I came to see those stones of yours. 
Everybody was talking about them, and I’m a geolo¬ 
gist by profession. I admit it. But when I’d seen 
you and talked to you—it was like a dream. A man 


258 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


of refinement and taste in my profession doesn’t meet 
a lady like you—not often.” 

“I’m nothing much, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor, unwilling to interrupt the smooth flow of 
Scottie’s comfortable eloquence, and yet feeling that 
modesty demanded such an interruption. 

“I knew you weren’t American the first time I 
spoke to you. They don’t raise people like you on 
the Pacific slope” (which was true), “and when I’d 
seen you once I knew that I’d have to see you again. 
I fought with my foolishness, but every day you 
lured me back.” 

“Not intentionally,” murmured Mrs. Crafton-Bon- 
sor. 

“Don’t I know it?” said Scottie wearily, as he 
rose and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Mrs. Bon- 
sor. It has been like living in another world.” 

She took his hand, reluctant to end an interview 
which was not unpleasing. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Scottie,” she said. “I’d like to 
see you again, but-” 

“I understand,” said Scottie bitterly. “It is what 
the world would think of you—what all these la-d-da 
people in the hotel would say.” 

Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor stiffened. 

“If you think I care two cents for their opinions/’ 
she said shrilly, “why, you’re wrong! Come up to 
dinner to-morrow night.” 

Her words were a command, her mien a little ma¬ 
jestic. Scottie did not speak. He bowed and went 



MEETING MRS. BONSOR 


259 

out quickly. She might have changed her mind if 
he hadn’t. 

Half-way down the stairs he tried to recall the 
conversation in its entirety. 

There were certain good books circulated amongst 
convicts designed to bring them to an appreciation 
of a virtuous life. He had made mention of these 
to Stella Nelson on one occasion. In these books 
there was recorded inevitably a speech delivered by 
the reformed lag usually to the gentle woman 
who had, by her sweet influence, brought about his 
reformation. 

In the main the thief of fiction expressed very 
much the same sentiments as the Scottie of fact. 
But he had forgotten something- Then he re¬ 

membered, with a “Tut” of impatience. 

“I didn’t say anything about my mother!” he said. 

Considering this omission later, he decided that 
on the whole it was well that he had forgotten. It 
would be advisable to hold something in reserve for 
the second interview. Nevertheless, he must take 
no chances, and, turning into the nearest railway- 
terminus, he made for the news-stall. 

“Have you got a book called Saved by a Child, or 
one called Only a Convict?” 

“No,” said the youth in charge, “we don’t sell kid 
books.” 

“ 'Kid’ is exactly the word, my son,” said Scottie. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


THE GHOST OF A NAME 

“My dear Macleod (wrote an attache at the 
American Embassy,—I do not know Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor personally, but I have heard quite a lot about 
her. As you rightly surmise, Crafton-Bonsor was 
not a United States Senator. In this country you 
have what you call ‘courtesy titles’; ‘Senator’ may be 
described in this case as a discourtesy title! The 
original name of Crafton-Bonsor is difficult to un¬ 
earth. He was called variously ‘Mike’ and ‘Murphy’ 
by old associates, but he was ‘Bonsor’ Murphy and 
‘Grafter’ Bonsor, and from these two appellations he 
probably arrived at Crafton-Bonsor, He had some 
sort of political pull, and in his latter days was 
universally known as ‘the Senator.’ He died im¬ 
mensely rich, and his widow inherited every cent.” 

Andy read the letter to Stella Nelson the first time 
they were alone. * 

He had performed his duty, and Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor could now have no doubt as to her friend’s 
character. So far from the knowledge having in¬ 
terfered with the association of these strange peo¬ 
ple, it seemed to have had exactly the opposite effect. 

“She may be trying to reform him,” suggested 
Stella, her eyes twinkling. “Bad men have an ir- 
260 


THE GHOST OF A NAME 


261 


resistible fascination for susceptible ladies. Not that 
Scottie is bad or that Mrs. Bonsor is particularly sus¬ 
ceptible. I remember her now. She came to Bev¬ 
erley Green and smashed up our beautiful lilac. 
Scottie told me her name afterwards.” 

“At lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner!” protested 
Andy. “For all I know, he is breakfasting there! 
I am not concerned with Scottie’s lighter recreations, 
and I suppose, having warned the lady, my responsi¬ 
bility is at an end, but still-” 

“Perhaps he loves her,” suggested the girl, “and 
please, Andy, don’t sneer. Scottie has always struck 
me as having a romantic disposition.” 

“I wouldn’t deny it,” said Andy. “That alibi of 
his-” 

“Andrew! Don’t be unpleasant! Besides, you’ve 
got to meet her.” 

“I have to meet her ?” said Andy in surprise. 

Stella nodded solemnly. 

“Scottie has written to me to ask if he can bring 
her down to dinner, and of course I have said yes. 
I gave a brief description of her to father and he 
has been shuddering ever since. I think he will have 
an engagement at the club to-night, which makes it 
♦all the more imperative that you should be here.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Andy incredu¬ 
lously, “that Scottie has had the audacity to invite 
himself and his bejewelled friend to dine with you?” 

Apparently Scottie had, and that evening Andrew 
Macleod made the acquaintance of a lady whom he 
had endeavoured to serve. 



262 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Mrs. Crafton-Boiisor was arrayed in a tight-fit¬ 
ting plum velvet gown, cut perilously low, and, hav¬ 
ing seen her, Andy was smitten dumb. 

Never on one human being had he seen such a 
display of precious stones. From the diamond band 
about her red hair to the diamond buckles on her 
shoes, she was overpowering. Standing beside her, 
a Rajah in full uniform and wearing the jewels of 
State would have seemed mean and unadorned. 

Scottie was joyous. H 4 s* pride was so absurdly 
sincere that Andy could only gape at him. 

“Meet my friend, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said. 
“This is Dr. Macleod, Mirabel.” (“Mirabel!” re¬ 
peated Andy, mentally, and gasped). “Dr. Macleod 
and I have had many contests—you might even call 
them fights—but I bear him no malice. He was the 
gentleman that warned you against me, and wasn’t 
he justified?” 

He took Andy’s hand in his and shook it intensely. 

Mrs. Bonsor, on the contrary, favoured Andy 
with a stony glance from her blue eyes. 

“Meet Miss Nelson, Mirabel,” said Scottie. 

Something glittered on his finger as he waved the 
introduction. 

“Glad to meet you, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bonsor 
without enthusiasm. “Any friend of the professor’s 
—Professor Bellingham”—she glared towards Andy 
—“is a friend of mine.” 

It was an awkward beginning to what Stella had 
hoped would be a very pleasant and amusing eve¬ 
ning. It dawned upon her half-way through din- 


THE GHOST OF A NAME 263 


ner, and the thought left her helpless, that Mrs. 
Crafton-Bonsor was jealous of her! But by this 
time that lady had overriden her earlier suspicions 
and antagonism, and was chatting genially with 
Andy. 

The poison was creeping into Scottie’s veins. 
That sober man, whose unostentation was his great¬ 
est charm, had developed two large solitaire rings. 
Andy did not look at them too closely; nor was there 
any need, he decided, for Scottie would not display 
jewellery that had been fully described in the Hue 
and Cry. 

“Yes, I am leaving next week,” Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor was saying, with a glance at Scottie. “I 
have had a better time than I thought I should, but 
naturally I want to get back to my beautiful home 
in Santa Barbara. The lawn is as big as this vil¬ 
lage—I showed the professor a picture of it, and he 
thought it was wonderful. It is natural that, having 
a beautiful home like that, I want to stay with 
it.” 

She glanced at Scottie, as that gentleman dropped 
his eyes to the tablecloth. There was something ob¬ 
scenely modest about Scottie at that moment, and 
Andy would dearly have loved to have kicked him. 

“I hope you won’t find the journey too lonely for 
you, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” said Andy. “You will 
miss our friend, the professor.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bonsor, and coughed. 

Scottie looked up. 

“I was thinking of going over to California to 


264 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


have a look round,” he said, and on this occasion it 
was Mrs. Bonsor who simpered. 

“The fact is, Mister—” she said, “Stanhope and 
I-” 

“Stanhope ? Who is Stanhope ?” asked the baffled 
Andy, but he had no need to ask; the pleading eyes 
of Scottie met his. 

“Stanhope and I are very good friends. I 
thought you would have noticed the ring.” She 
held up a plump hand. 

There and then Andy noticed about twenty. He 
made a good recovery. 

“May I offer you my congratulations,” he said 
heartily. “Really, this is surprising news, Mrs. 
Crafton-Bonsor.” 

“Nobody was more surprised than myself,” said 
that lady cheerfully, “but you’ll understand, mister 
—I always forget your name; I used to forget the 
Senator’s sometimes. You understand how lonely 
a woman in my position can get. Besides, I want 
Stanhope to begin a new life. There is a peach of 
a mountain near my house where he could—what’s 
the word, Stan ?” 

“Geologise,” murmured Scottie. 

“That’s the word,” said Mrs. Bonsor. “And if 
that doesn’t suit, there are some dandy mountains 
within a car-ride.” 

“So you are going to leave us?” smiled Andy. 
“And I suppose that in a month’s time you will have 
forgotten Beverley Green and Wilmot, and the mur¬ 
derous Abraham Selim, and-” 




THE GHOST OF A NAME 265 

There was a crash. 

Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor had fallen to the floor in a 
dead faint. 

“It was the heat of the room/’ she gasped, a dis¬ 
hevelled, untidy woman, her jewels awry. “I—I 
think I’ll go back to the hotel. Stanhope”—it was 
pathetic to see how much she relied on him—“will 
you order the car?” 

Her face had gone suddenly old and grey, against 
which the carmined lips looked ghastly. Andy ex¬ 
pected any minute to see her collapse again. He 
thought it was a more serious attack at first. She 
was of the build that is susceptible to such trouble, 
and he was relieved when she showed signs of re¬ 
covery. He and the concerned Scottie assisted her 
to the car. 

“The drive will do me good,” she said with a 
nervous little laugh as she glanced round. “I am 
sorry to give you all this trouble, Miss What’s-your- 
name, and I wanted to hear about that murder, 
too. Who was killed? Abraham Selim?” 

“No, a man named Merrivan. It was foolish of 
me to mention that ghastly business,” said Andy. 

“Oh, that didn’t worry me. Good-night, mister.” 

Andy went back with the girl to the unfinished 
meal. 

“Abraham Selim,” he said softly. 

She frowned. 

“Do you think it was the mention of that name 
that made her faint?” 


266 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Andy nodded. 

“There is no doubt about it in my mind,” he said, 
“but why should the name of the murderer of Mer- 
rivan have that result?” 

He sat studying the pattern of the cloth for a long 
time, and she did not interrupt his thoughts. 

“I really think I must interview Mrs. Crafton- 
Bonsor,” he said slowly, “for, unless I am greatly 
mistaken, that lady can tell us more about this mur¬ 
der and its motive than the murderer himself.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


THE MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN 

Andy stayed at the house until Mr. Nelson returned, 
and strolled across the green to the guest house, 
where he had reserved his old room. 

He was the only visitor in the house, and Johnston 
hailed his arrival with unfeigned pleasure. 

“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said. “I was 
afraid you wouldn’t be here for another hour.” 

Andy shot a swift professional glance at the man; 
his face was drawn, his teeth were chattering. 

“What is the matter with you, Johnston?” he 
said. “You seem to be under the weather.” 

“My nerves have all gone to pieces since this 
murder,” said Johnston. “I get that jumpy I can 
hardly keep still, and I never go to sleep until three 
o’clock in the morning.” 

“Why not?” asked Andy. 

The man laughed hysterically. 

“If I tell you, you’ll probably think I am mad, and 
there are times when I feel that way, doctor. And 
I’m not naturally a nervous man—never was. I 
don’t mind telling you in confidence that in my 
younger days I poached on every estate in this coun¬ 
try. But-” 


267 



268 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“But what?” asked Andy after an interval of si¬ 
lence. 

“I’m a religious man, too, in a manner of speak¬ 
ing,” Johnston went on. “I never miss the evening 
service, and I don’t believe in anything supernatural 
—spiritualism and all that sort of rubbish. I’ve al¬ 
ways said that the spirits men see are the spirits they 
put inside of ’em.” 

“And you’ve been seeing ghosts, eh ?'” said Andy, 
interested. “Which means, Johnston, that you are 
thoroughly run down. I’ll see Mr. Nelson to-mor¬ 
row and ask him to recommend to the committee 
that you have a holiday.” 

Johnston shook his head. 

“Perhaps you are right, sir, but—I’m a fool I sup¬ 
pose, but I’ve seen things in Beverley Green that 
would make your blood turn to water, and you’re a 
doctor. It is a valley of ghosts. I’ve always said 
it was, and it is.” 

“Have you been seeing any of the ghostly in¬ 
habitants ?” 

The man licked his lips. 

“I’ve seen Mr. Merrivan,” he said. 

Andy, who had turned with a laugh to go upstairs, 
swung round again. 

“You’ve seen Mr. Merrivan? Where?” 

“I have seen him, as I’ve seen him dozens of times, 
standing at his front gate in his dressing-gown. 
He used to come out in the old days in the early 
morning, just wearing his long yellow dressing-gown 




MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN 269 

—before people were about, you understand—at five 
or six o’clock, and I’ve seen him out there on warm 
summer nights, standing with his hands in his 
pockets, taking the air.” 

“Oh, you have, have you?” said Andy softly. 
“And you’ve seen him since his death?” 

The man nodded. 

“I saw him two nights ago,” he said. “I haven’t 
told a soul about it, but I’ve been sleeping badly, 
and I usually take a walk round the green before I 
go to bed. I have been as many as twenty times 
round the green in the course of a night,” he ex¬ 
plained. “At first I used to go as near Mr. Merri- 
van’s house as my nerves would let me, and after 
two or three nights I found I couldn’t go within 
fifty yards of it. Two nights ago I was strolling 
up and down, wondering who would buy the house. 
Mr. Wilmot has had all the furniture cleared out, the 
only things left being the curtains in the windows. 
I was loafing along, thinking how desolate the place 

looked, when all of a sudden I saw a light, and-” 

His voice shook tremulously. “It was in the room 
where the body was found.” 

“What sort of a light?” 

“It looked to me like a candle, sir. It wasn’t a 
bright light, as though somebody had turned on the 
electricity. As a matter of fact, Mr. Wilmot has 
had the electric current cut off.” 

“And then what happened?” asked Andy. 

“Then, sir,” Johnson shivered, “well, I only saw 



270 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


a crack of light between the blinds and the wall, and 
I was thinking that I was imagining things, when 
the blind was slowly pulled up-” 

Andy waited until the man had overcome his 
emotions. 

“I couldn’t see him distinctly, but he was in a 
dressing-gown, and he was looking out into the gar¬ 
den. I was paralysed; just stood stock still and 
couldn’t move. Then the blind was pulled down 
and the light went out. I saw it a few minutes 
afterwards in the hall. There is a fanlight over the 
door. I don’t know how long I stood there, pos¬ 
sibly ten minutes, probably ten seconds—I didn’t 
sort of realise that time was passing. And then, 
when I was just recovering myself, the door opened. 
There was only a faint light in the passage—and he 
came out.” 

“Merrivan ?” 

The man nodded. 

“Or, at any rate, somebody in a dressing-gown, 
eh?” said Andy. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And have you seen it since ?” 

“I saw it again last night. I made myself walk 
toward the house. There he was standing at the 
front gate, with his hands in his pockets.” 

“Did you see his face?” 

“No, sir, I didn’t wait to see his face. I bolted.” 

“Have you told Mr. Wilmot?” 

“No, sir, I didn’t like to tell him, Mr. Merrivan 
being his uncle.” 



MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN 271 

Andy thought over the matter for a long time. 

‘‘You are probably suffering from hallucinations 
due to a bad attack of nerves,” he said. ‘Til give 
you an examination to-morrow, Johnston.” 

It was eleven o’clock when Andy turned his light 
out and slipped into bed. For some reason he could 
not sleep. He had had a hard day’s work, and it 
was absurd to suggest that his nerves had been in 
any way disordered by Johnston’s narrative. The 
man was certainly neurotic. He had seen the re¬ 
flection of a light from some other house and had 
imagined the rest. And yet there would be no lights 
in other houses at that hour of the morning. Turn¬ 
ing over the matter in his mind, Andy fell into an 
uneasy sleep. 

It was a scream that aroused him, a hoarse 
shriek of fear. He leapt out of bed and turned 
on the light, and a second later there came to him 
the scuttle of hurrying footsteps along the pas¬ 
sage. 

He opened the door to confront Johnston. The 
caretaker’s face was the colour of chalk, and in his 
terror he mouthed and gibbered incoherently, point¬ 
ing toward the window. Andy ran to the window 
and threw it up. He could see nothing. 

“Turn out the light, Johnston,” he said sharply. 
A second later the room was dark. Still peering 
into the darkness, he saw nothing. 

“I saw him, I saw him!” gasped Johnston. “He 
was there on the green, under my window, Just 
walking up and down in his dressing-gown! I 


272 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


opened the window and looked out to make sure. 
And he spoke to me. Oh, my God!” 

“What did he say?” asked Andy, shaking the blub¬ 
bering man by the shoulder. “Speak up, man; what 
did he say?” 

“He asked for the key,” wailed Johnston. “He 
called me by my name. 'Give me the key/ he said.” 

Andy slipped on an overcoat, ran down the stairs, 
and out into the open. He saw nobody, and, throw¬ 
ing himself flat on the grass to secure a skyline, he 
searched in every direction, but in vain. 

Returning to Johnston, he found the man on the 
verge of collapse, and applied such rough-and-ready 
restoratives as he could secure. He succeeded in 
bringing him back to some semblance of manhood, 
but he held stoutly to his story. 

“Why did he ask you for the key ?” 

“Because I have it,” said Johnston. “Here it is, 
sir.” 

He took a key from a cupboard in his room. 

“Mr. Wilmot gave me this. I was supposed to 
show people over the house—people who want to 
buy it.” 

“Give it to me,” said Andrew, and put it in his 
pocket. 

There could be no more sleep for Andy that night. 
He dressed and went abroad on a tour of inspection. 
He met nothing human or supernatural in his walk 
across the green. An eerie sensation came to him 
as he passed through the gates and by the aid of his 


MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN 273 

flash-lamp turned the key. His footsteps echoed 
hollowly in the bare hall. 

He hesitated only for a second before he turned 
the handle and threw open the door leading into 
Mr. Merrivan’s “den.” Every article of furniture 
had been removed, even the carpet had been taken 
up from the floor, and only a few hanging strands 
of wire showed where Mr. Merrivan’s etchings had 
hung. 

He paused for a second to examine the dark stain 
on the floor-board where the owner of the house had 
met his death, and then he flashed his lamp on the 
window. In that second of time he saw something, 
and a cold shiver ran down his spine. It was the 
glimpse of a figure in the garden outside, the figure 
dimly illuminated by the flash of his electric torch. 
Another second, and it had disappeared. 

He jumped to the window and tried to force it up, 
but the side screws had been put into place, and it 
was some time before he came out into the garden 
and followed the cinder-path to the orchard. There 
was no sign of man or ghost. 

“Phew!” said Andy, wiping his moist forehead. 

Going back to the room, he fastened the window 
behind him and closed and locked the street door 
before he returned to the guest house, and then- 

“Well Pm-■” 

Andy stood stock still in the middle of the green 
and looked up to Stella’s window. Once more in a 
moment of crisis her light was burning. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS 

This time Andy decided he would not wait till the 
morning for an explanation. It would probably be 
a very simple one, and—a light had appeared in the 
hall-room. He only tapped gently on the door, but 
Stella answered him. 

“Who is that?” 

There was a note of anxiety in her voice. 

“It is Andy!” 

“Andy!” He heard her fingers fumbling with the 
chain. “Oh, Andy!” She fell into his arms, sob¬ 
bing. “I’m so frightened! I’m such a fool!” 

“Everybody seems frightened and foolish to¬ 
night,” said Andy as he smoothed the brown head 
that lay on his shoulder. “What have you seen?” 

“Have you seen anything?” she asked, looking up. 

Mr. Nelson’s voice called from upstairs. 

“It is Andy, father. Will you come down?” 

“Anything wrong?” Nelson was fastening his 
dressing-gown as he descended the stairs. 

“I’m just trying to find out,” said Andy. “Bever¬ 
ley Green seems to be in a state of nerves to-night.” 

Mr. Nelson’s dressing-gown was purple, he noted, 
and he had the appearance of a man who had just 
been aroused from sleep. 

274 


MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS 


2 75 

“Did you knock before?” he asked. “I could 
have sworn I heard somebody.” 

“No, daddy, it wasn’t Andy.” She shivered. 

“Did somebody knock?” asked Andy. 

She nodded. 

“I sleep very lightly,” she said, “and I must have 
heard the knock the first time. I thought it was 
you and opened the window to look out. I saw 
somebody down below standing on the path. He 
was quite distinct.” 

“How was he dressed?” asked Andy quickly. 
“In a dressing-gown ?” 

“Have you seen him?” she said. “Who was it, 
Andy?” 

“Go on, my dear, what happened?” 

“I called out ‘Who is it ?’ and he didn’t answer at 
first,” Stella went on, “and then in a deep kind of 
voice he said, ‘Have you got your scarf?’ I didn’t 
know what he meant at first, then I remembered the 
scarf which had been found in the orchard. ‘Yes,’ 
I said. ‘Who are you ?’ But he didn’t answer, and 
I saw him walking away. I sat for a long time in 
the dark puzzling my head as to who it could be. It 
wasn’t your voice; it wasn’t the voice of anybody 
unless—but that is absurd.” 

“Unless it was Merrivan’s?” said Andy quietly. 

“Of course it wasn’t his, but it was very low and 
gentle, just as his was, and the more I thought about 
it the more frightened I became. Yes, I did think 
it was Mr. Merrivan’s, and fought hard against the 
idea. Then I put my light on and came down-stairs, 


276 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

intending to call father and to get a glass of milk. 
Then you knocked, Andy.” 

“It is extraordinary,” said Andy, and told them 
what he had seen and heard in the night. “Johnston 
is a dithering wreck. You’ll have to let him go 
away, Mr. Nelson.” 

“But who coul 4 it be ? Do you think it was some¬ 
body trying to frighten lis?” 

“They succeeded very well if it was,” said Andy. 

“My theory is,” said Mr. Nelson, who was never 
at a loss for a theory, “that you were all upset by 
that wretched woman’s fit. I knew you were upset 
the moment I came in.” 

“Johnston wasn’t upset,” said Andy, “and I think 
my nerves are in pretty good order.” 

He took the key out of his pocket. 

“Go along and have a look at Merrivan’s house,” 
he smiled. 

“Not for a thousand,” said Mr. Nelson fervently. 
“Now, off you go to bed, Stella. You’ll be a wreck 
in the morning.” 

“It is morning now,” said the girl, pulling aside 
the blinds. “I wonder if Arthur Wilmot is awake?” 

The same thought had come into Andy’s mind, 
and, having extracted a solemn promise from Stella 
that she would go straight to bed, he left her and 
made his way to Mr. Wilmot’s bijou residence. 

It was a very long time before he aroused the 
milliner, and Arthur Wilmot received the news with 
strange calmness. 

“It is curious,” he said. “I was in the house yes- 


MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS 


277 


terday. In fact, it was I who put the bolts in the 
back window. They haven’t been bolted since the 
murder.” 

“You have seen nothing?” asked Andy. 

“Nothing whatever,” said Wilmot. “If you’ll 
wait a minute while I dress, I’ll come over to the 
house with you. It ought to be light enough then to 
see whether there are any footprints in the garden.” 

“Don’t bother your head about footprints,” said 
Andy irritably. “A cinder path and an asphalted 
courtyard are not the best material to collect that 
sort of evidence from.” 

Nevertheless, he accompanied Arthur to the house, 
and they made a thorough search of the rooms, be¬ 
ginning at the hall. 

“Here’s something.” 

Wilmot pointed to the floor. 

“Candle grease,” said Andy, interested. “Have 
you had anybody here with candles?” 

Arthur Wilmot shook his head. 

They found another gout of grease in Merrivan’s 
room, and then they discovered a half-burnt candle. 
It lay at the back of the deep fireplace. 

“I didn’t need this to know that something more 
substantial than a spirit had been in this place,” said 
Andy. “Without professing to be an authority on 
ghosts, I always understood they carried their own 
illumination.” 

He wrapped the candle carefully in paper. 

“What are you going to do with that?” asked 
Wilmot in astonishment, and Andy smiled. 


278 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Really, for a man who suggests that I should 
look for footprints on asphalt you are singularly 
dense, Wilmot. This candle is covered with finger¬ 
prints.” 

The murderer, sane or insane, was attracted to 
the scene of the crime, and probably his visits were 
of frequent occurrence. 

He said nothing about his plans to Wilmot or to 
the Nelsons. His first business lay with Mrs. Craf- 
ton-Bonsor, but that lady was not visible. More 
than that, when Andy urged the imperative necessity 
for an interview, she flatly and firmly refused to 
see him. And Scottie was her messenger. 

“Women’s whims,” murmured Scottie. “It is no 
good, Macleod, she is as hard as a neolithic fossil. I 
have done my best, but she won’t see you.” 

“Now, Scottie,” said Andy, “I have treated you 
fair and you have got to help me. What was Abra¬ 
ham Selim to her?” 

Scottie gave an elaborate shrug. 

“Never enquire into a woman’s past, Macleod,” he 
said. “ ‘The past is dead, so let it die’ as the song 
says, ‘and happiness is with the future.’ ” 

“I am not concerned with the future, but with 
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor’s past,” said Andy unpleas¬ 
antly, “and I intend seeing that lady or there is going 
to be serious trouble.” 

Scottie disappeared, and was gone for nearly half 
an hour before he returned. 

“She’s ill, Macleod, there is no doubt about it. 


MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS 


279 

You as a medical man, will see it with half an eye. 
But she’ll give you two minutes.” 

Mrs. Bonsor was lying on a couch, and Scottie 
had not exaggerated the tragic effect which his 
chance reference of the previous night had produced 
upon the woman. Her plump cheeks seemed to have 
grown haggard; the insolence in her blue eyes had 
departed. 

“I’ve got nothing to tell you, mister,” she said 
sharply, almost as soon as Andy was in the room. 
“I don’t know Abraham Selim and I don’t want to 
talk about him. If he is a friend of yours, well, I 
don’t admire your taste.” 

“Hasn’t Scottie told you-” he began. 

“Scottie has told me nothing,” she said shrilly, 
“and I don’t see why you should come up here into 
my private sitting-room—God knows they charge 
me enough for it—and try to pump me.” 

“Did you ever know Abraham Selim?” 

She hesitated. 

“Well, I did,” she said reluctantly. “That was 
years and years ago. I don’t want to talk to you 
about it, mister. My private affairs are my own 
private affairs. I don’t care who you are, policeman 
or not. My character will bear investigation, be¬ 
lieve me.” 

Andy waited until she was finished, and then he 
said : 

“Your name was Hilda Masters, and you married 
John Severn at St. Paul’s Church, Marylebone.” 



28 o 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


Her jaw dropped, and she stared up at him. And 
then she began to cry, and from tears she turned to 
laughter. 

It was a wonderful Scottie that Andrew Macleod 
saw in that moment of the woman’s despair. He 
was by turns tender and authoritative, soothing and 
sarcastic. Andy in his discretion left them alone 
for half an hour, at the end of which time Scottie 
came to him. 

“Macleod,” he said quietly, “she’s going to tell 
you the whole truth, and, stenography being my long 
suit, I’d like to take it down for you. Mirabel,” he 
hesitated, “hasn’t got what I might term my Hair for 
high-class language, and I guess it will look better if 
I put it into police-English than if you dig up the 
hotel stenog. She’s a freckled-nosed woman with 
gold-filled teeth. I took a dislike to her the first time 
I saw her. Your surprise at my versatility does 
credit to your intelligence, but I used to do 180 when 
I was a youngster, and few key-punchers have ever 
passed me in a straightforward bit of typing. I’m 
keen on this girl. She’s not a girl to you, but you’ll 
get elastic in your ideas as you get older. Will you 
let me do it? You fire in the questions and I’ll sort 
out the answers and fix ’em together.” 

Andy nodded, and of this strange partnership was 
born a stranger story. 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


THE STATEMENT OF MRS. CRAFTON-BONSOR 

“My name is Mirabel Hilda Crafton-Bonsor. I am 
not sure whether that was my late husband’s real 
name. I believe that it was Michael Murphy. He 
was of Irish extraction, and when I first met him he 
was a contractor in the City of Sacramento, in the 
State of California. 

“I was born in the village of Uckfield, Sussex, but 
came to London when I was aged seven. My 
parents dying, I lived with an aunt, Mrs. Pawl, of 
Bayham Street, Camden Town, and entered domestic 
service at the age of sixteen, going as parlourmaid 
to Miss Janet Severn, of 104 Manchester Square. 
Miss Severn was a maiden lady and very eccentric. 
She had strong views about marriage, and particu¬ 
larly about the marriages of the lower classes. 

“The only other person in the house beside Miss 
Janet and the other servants was Mr. John Severn, 
Miss Severn’s nephew, and he was only there during 
vacations. He was a student at Cambridge Univer¬ 
sity. I do not know the College, but I know that it 
was Cambridge, because I have posted a good many 
letters from Miss Janet to him and she always read 
out the address aloud before she gave it to me. I 
know the college had a religious name. 

281 


282 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Unfortunately, I cannot read or write, and 
though I have since learnt to write my name on a 
cheque I can do no more. That explains why I 
never read of the murder, nor knew the names of the 
persons concerned. I used to see a lot of Mr. John 
was at home. He was partial to me, for 
in those days I was a very good-looking girl, but 
he never made love to me. 

“Whilst I was in Manchester Square I met a man 
who was called Mr. Selim—Abraham Selim. He 
used to come to the servants’ entrance once a week, 
and I thought he was one of those people who sell 
goods to servants on credit. I afterwards found 
out that he was a moneylender who had a big trade 
in the West End amongst servants. The cook 
was heavily in his debt and a housemaid named 
Rachael was also in debt to him. 

“He was not a bad-looking fellow, and when he 
found that I didn’t want to borrow money, but had 
a bit of my own in the savings bank (I being a sav¬ 
ing kind, and always was), he seemed to be struck 
on me, and asked if I would go walking with him 
on my first Sunday out. I said yes, because I’d 
never had a fellow, and, as I say, he was not at all 
bad-looking. He met me the next Sunday. We 
drove to Hampton in a hansom cab. I must say that 
it was a grand experience for me. He gave me 
everything of the best and behaved like a gentleman 
in every way. 

“To cut a long story short, he met me a good 
number of times, and then suggested that we should 


THE STATEMENT 


283 

get married. He said that it would have to be 
secret, and I should have to stay on in my job for a 
month or two, as he had certain plans. I didn’t 
mind that idea, because I was perfectly comfortable 
with Miss Janet. So one Monday I had the day 
off, and we were married before the regfc^f at 
Brixton, where he lived, and in the evening I went 
back to Miss Janet’s. 

“Then one day he came in a state of great excite¬ 
ment and asked me if I’d ever heard of a gentleman 
whose name I forget. I told him I’d heard Miss 
Janet speak of him. He was her brother-in-law, 
and she was not on speaking terms with him, because 
he had treated his wife (her sister) badly. He was 
well off, but from what I heard neither Miss Janet 
nor Mr. John ever expected a penny from the old 
man. I told my husband all that I knew, and he 
seemed very pleased. He asked me if Mr. John 
ever made love to me, and I was very upset at the 
question, for I was a respectable girl and did not 
hold with such things. He pacified me and said 
that perhaps he could make a fortune if I’d help 
him. He also said that when he married me he 
had no idea until I put an X on the register instead 
of my name that I couldn’t read or write, and that 
was going to be a handicap to him. 

“But I could help him a lot if I could find out 
where Mr. John went in the evenings. I discovered 
afterwards that he wanted this information in order 
to plan a meeting with Mr. John, whom he did 
not know. I did know that Mr. John was in debt. 


284 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 

He’d told me that the cost of living at Cambridge 
was very heavy and that he had borrowed money, 
and begged me not to say a word to his aunt. 

•“I naturally thought that Abraham had got word 
of this and wanted to do a little business with Mr. 
John. If I had known what their meeting would 
lead to I’d have cut my tongue out rather than 
told Abraham the place where Mr. John spent his 
evenings—which was in a club in Soho where young 
gentlemen used to go to gamble. 

“About a week after, Selim informed me that 
he had met Mr. John and had helped him. 

“ r Whatever you do, don’t tell him that you know 
me in any shape or form.’ 

“I promised, and I wasn’t likely to tell. Miss 
Janet was very straight-laced, and there would have 
been trouble for me if she knew that I was married 
and was masquerading as a single girl. The Severns 
are a very old family, and have a motto which 
means class people must never do anything mean. 
It was in Latin. And there was a bird’s head on 
the notepaper, holding a snake in its beak. She 
did explain what it meant, but I’ve forgotten. I 
don’t know what business he had with Mr. John, 
but Abraham seemed very pleased when he met 
me. He had given up calling at the house now 
and sent a clerk. 

“It is a strange thing that the clerk had never 
seen Abraham, and I afterwards found out that 
although Selim said that he had met Mr. John they 


THE STATEMENT 


285 

had never been face to face. It was just about 
that time that Abraham began to be very secretive. 
I found this out when Mr. John told me that he had 
done a very good stroke of business with a man 
who had written to him. 

“ ‘He thinks I am going to inherit an estate/ he 
said. T told him there was no hope, but he insisted 
on lending me all the money I wanted.’ 

“I told Abe this when I saw him, but he only 
laughed. I remember the evening I told him very 
well. It was a Sunday, and we had met at a restaur¬ 
ant near King’s Cross. I want to say that although 
I had been married to him over a month he and I 
had never met except, so to speak, in public. He 
never kissed me in his life. 

“It had been raining very heavily, and when we 
came out of the restaurant he put me in a hansom 
and told the driver to drop me at the corner of 
Portman Square. It was about ten o’clock when 
I paid the cabman—Abraham always gave me 
plenty of money—and I had the shock of my life 
when I turned away from the cab and almost ran 
into the arms of Miss Janet. She didn’t say any¬ 
thing then, but when I got home she sent for me. 

“She said she couldn’t understand how a respect¬ 
able girl could ride in a hansom cab, and where did I 
get the money from? I told her that I had money 
saved and that a friend paid for the cab. She 
didn’t like it a bit, I could see that, and I knew that 
I should get notice next pay day. 


286 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“ ‘Please wait up for Mr. John/ she said. ‘He’s 
dining with some friends, but he will not be later 
than eleven.’ 

“I was glad to see the back of her when she went 
upstairs to bed. Mr John did not come in until 
past twelve and I could see with half an eye that 
he had been drinking. I had laid a little supper 
for him in the breakfast-room and I waited on him. 

“He was what we call in America ‘fresh’ 
called me his darling little girl, and told me that he 
was going to buy me a pearl brooch. 

“And then, before I knew what was happening, 
he had taken me in his arms and was kissing me. 
I struggled with him, but he was very strong, and 
he had his lips against mine when the door opened— 
and there was Miss Janet. 

“She gave me one look and pointed to the door 
and I went, and glad I was to go. I fully expected 
the next morning to be packed off bag and baggage, 
especially as Miss Janet had sent up word to say 
that I was not on any account to do any work. 
At about ten o’clock she sent for me to the drawing¬ 
room. 

“I shall never forget her sitting there in her 
black alpaca, with her little white lace cap and her 
beautiful hands folded on her lap. She had lovely 
hands; all we servants used to admire them. 

“ ‘Hilda,’ she said, ‘my nephew has done you 
a great wrong, how great I have not enquired. I 
understand now why you have so much money and 
showed the cook five golden sovereigns only last 


THE STATEMENT 


287 


week. But that is beside the point. You are a 
young girl in my house and under my protection. 
I have a great responsibility, both to God and my 
fellows, and I have arranged that my nephew shall 
do the honourable thing and marry you.’ 

“I simply couldn’t speak. In the first place, 
I’d started the crying the moment she began to 
talk, and in a second place her words struck me all 
of a heap. I wanted to tell her that I was already 
married and had my certificate to prove it. At 
least I hadn’t got it, but Abraham had. I think 
it was remembering this that shut me up. 

“ ‘ I have spoken to my nephew and I have sent a 
note to my lawyer giving him the necessary partic¬ 
ulars in order that he may get a licence from the 
bishop. You will be married at St. Paul’s Mary- 
lebone, on Thursday next.’ 

“And with that she sort of waved me out of the 
room. When Miss Janet moved her hand that way 
nobody breathing would have the courage to argue 
with her. When I came to my senses I wanted to 
go back and tell her the truth, and I asked if I 
could see her. But the other parlourmaid came 
back to say that Miss Janet was feeling poorly 
and that I could have the day off. 

“I went straight away to find Abraham. He 
had a little office above Ashlar’s, the tobacconist. 
Ashlar became a rich man after, I believe, and has 
a building named after him. Abe was there, for 
a wonder, but it was a long time before he unlocked 
the door and let me in. He told me that he never 


288 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


saw clients personally and was rather annoyed 
with me for coming. But when I told him the fix 
I was in he sort of changed his tone. I said that 
I should have to tell Miss Janet, but he wouldn’t 
hear of it. 

“ ‘I always thought something like this might 
happen,’ he said. ‘Now, Hilda, you’ve got to be 
a good girl and do something for me. I’ve treated 
you very well, and it is now your turn to help me.’ 

“When I found what it was he wanted me to do 
I couldn’t believe my ears. I was to marry Mr. 
John! 

“ ‘But how can I when I’m already married ?’ 
I said. ‘I should get put in prison.’ 

“ ‘Nobody will ever know,’ he said. ‘You were 
married to me in another part of the town. I 
promise you that you shall leave him at the church 
and never see him again. Do this for me, Hilda, 
and I will give you a hundred pounds.’ 1 

“He said that if I married Mr. John we should 
both be rich for life, but he didn’t say why. He was 
always a wonderful talker, and he confused me so 
that I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my 
heels. He made black look white as the saying goes, 
and the long and the short of it was that I consented. 
I suppose I was a weak fool, but I admired his 
cleverness and his education so much that I simply 
didn’t think for myself. 

“I’ve often wondered whether he did this to get 
rid of me, but that doesn’t seem right, because there 
was no reason why he should have married me at 


THE STATEMENT 


289 

all. I think now that he wanted a pretty girl in 
the house who was so bound up with him that she 
would do what he told her to do. I don’t think he 
ever expected Mr. John would ask me to marry him, 
but perhaps he foresaw something worse than that. 
There wasn’t a meaner, more cold-blooded villain 
in the world than Abraham Selim. 

“On the day before the marriage I went to see 
Miss Janet. 

“ ‘Hilda/ she said, ‘to-morrow you will marry 
my nephew. I need not tell you that I am not 
boasting of this marriage, and I advise you to keep 
your own counsel. Now as to the future, it is not 
reasonable to expect that Mr. John, who is a gentle¬ 
man, will want to introduce a girl like you to his 
friends. You are totally uneducated, and, if your 
manners are nice, your terrible 'Cockney accent is 
impossible/ 

“It is strange how I remember every single word 
that Miss Janet said, though it is over thirty years 
ago. I felt very upset and crushed by her words, 
but I did pluck up enough spirit to ask her what 
she intended doing. 

“ ‘I am going to send you to a first-class establish¬ 
ment where neglected educations are improved. 
You will be there until you are twenty-two, and by 
that time you will be fit to take your place by your 
husband’s side without humiliating him or your¬ 
self/ 

“In a way this fitted in with what Abraham had 
promised me. In fact, I thought that he had 


290 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


arranged it, but I can see now that, if he had a 
plan, this was Miss Janet’s own. 

“Not until I walked into St. Paul’s Church on 
the Thursday did I see Mr. John. I don’t know 
now what passed between him and his aunt. I do 
know that he was very pale and very stand-offish, 
though polite. There were only about four people 
in the church, and the ceremony was over quicker 
than I expected. I had learnt to write my own 
name, so I didn’t disgrace him by putting my mark. 
Why he married me I don’t know. I am prepared 
to take an oath on the Bible that there was nothing 
between us but that kissing of his, and then he 
wasn’t quite himself. But marry me he did. Per¬ 
haps the Latin motto of the family and the 
bird’s head had something to do with it. It seems 
silly to me even now. Before I came to the church 
Miss Janet gave me £50 and the address I was to 
go to. It was in Victoria Drive, Eastbourne. She 
also wrote out the times of the trains. 

“I just said good-bye to Mr. John and walked 
out of the church, leaving him and his friend— 
Miss Janet did not come—and I never saw him 
again. 

“Abraham had arranged to meet and take me 
to dinner (or lunch, as it was; it was dinner to me 
in those days)’. 

“Sure enough, there he was, waiting for me 
outside the King’s Cross restaurant, and when we 
got inside I told him just what had occurred. 

“ ‘Let me have the certificate,’ he said, and I 


THE STATEMENT 


291 


gave him my new marriage lines. We did not talk 
very much more about the marriage, though I was 
a little nervous. I didn’t want to go to Eastbourne, 
and, what was more, I never intended going. But 
I wis dependent on Abraham. I knew he would 
have a plan for me. He had. But it wasn’t as I 
had ,ioped and prayed—that we should go into the 
country somewhere (which he’d promised when I 
agreed to marry Mr. John) and begin our married 
life in reality. 

“When we had nearly finished the meal he pulled 
out a big envelope from his pocket. 

“ T’ve got you a good berth—first class. If you 
keep your mouth shut nobody will know that you’re 
a domestic servant. There’s £500 in notes, and 
you will have two days to get yourself some clothes.’ 

“I was bewildered. I didn’t know what he was 
talking about. 

“ ‘You’re going to America,’ he said. T have 
got you some letters of introduction from my friend, 
Mr. Merry—something.’ It may have been Merri- 
van. I think it was. I understood from him 
that Mr. Merrivan was a client. ‘They’ll get you 
a job,’ he said, ‘and you have all that money.’ 

“ ‘But I don’t want to go, and I won’t go,’ I 
almost shouted at him. I knew that I spoke so 
loudly that the people in the restaurant turned 
round and looked at us. 

“That made him mad. I’ve never seen a man 
who could look so like a devil as he did. It 
frightened me. 


292 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“‘You’ll either go or IT1 call a policeman and 
give you in charge for having committed bigamy/ 

“I just hadn’t the strength to fight him. I left 
by a ship called the Lucania for New York. From 
New York I went to a place called Denver City, 
where one of my letters was addressed to. I was 
in a situation for a year. They do not call you a 
‘servant/ but a ‘help/ I was a ‘help’ for thirteen 
months, and then I had an offer to go as working 
housekeeper to Mr. Bonsor, who was a widower 
with one child that died. When Mr. Bonsor asked 
me to marry him I had to tell him the truth, and 
he said a marriage more or less made no difference 
to him. He had independent views about religion. 

“I never saw Abraham again, but I know that 
he wrote to the place where I was working in Den¬ 
ver asking what had become of me. The people did 
not know. That was seven years after I arrived 
in the United States. I have not heard of Mr. John, 
but I know that Miss Janet died a month after I 
left from pneumonia. I found this out by a notice 
Mr. Bonsor saw in an English paper.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 

There was one person to whom the statement of 
Hilda Masters should be shown, thought Andy. 
For some time he had had a suspicion that Mr. Boyd 
Salter could have thrown more illumination upon 
his friend Severn’s life and folly than he cared to 
cast. 

He sent a wire to the master of Beverley Hall 
asking for an interview, and had found a note 
awaiting him on his return to the Green asking him 
to come up at once. 

‘Til go up with you,” said Stella. “You can 
leave me in the car outside.” 

Tilling, that anxious man, seemed a little more 
nervous than usual. 

“You’ll be careful with the squire, doctor, won’t 
you? He hasn’t been sleeping any too well, and 
the doctor told Mr. Francis—that’s our young 
master—that his nerves may go at any moment.” 

“Thank you, Tilling,” said Andy, “I will be 
careful.” 

He was to find that Tilling had not exaggerated 
Mr. Salter’s condition. His face was grey and 
sunken, but he greeted the detective with a smile. 

293 


294 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


■‘You’ve come to tell me that you’ve found my 
burglar,” he said good-humouredly. “You can 
save yourself the trouble. It was that jewel thief 
of yours!” 

Andy was not prepared for this piece of infor¬ 
mation. 

“I am afraid it was,” he said, “but I honestly 
believe that he came here without felonious intent. 
In fact he was trailing my burglar.” 

“And found him, eh?” 1 said Salter slyly. “A 
mysterious gamekeeper.” 

“How on earth did you find that out ?” 

Salter laughed, and as he laughed he winced. 

Andy saw, and was distressed. The man had 
heart trouble. 

“I won’t attempt to mystify you,” said Boyd 
Salter, enjoying his sensation. “Scottie—that’s 
the rascal’s name, eh?i—disappeared the day after. 
Miss Nelson went away the same day. She went 
to a place called Castle Street and nursed somebody. 
Who but your disreputable friend?”' 

A light dawned on Andy. 

“Downer, of course,” he said, and the other 
nodded smilingly. “But the gamekeeper, how 
did you know about him?” 

“Downer again, plus another rascal—Martin is 
he called?” 

Andy was too big a man to withhold the admira¬ 
tion which the clever Mr. Downer deserved. 

“I hand it to Downer. He is certainly the best 
of the newsmen.” 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


295 


“He came down to see me,” explained Salter, 
”and for his benefit I had all my gamekeepers 
paraded and questioned. There was one man who 
admitted that he was in the kitchen—we have 
cocoa for them there when they are on night duty 
—and he thinks he must have gone out at about 
the time Scottie saw a man go out. That was 
as far as I got. Now what is your important 
news?” 

“I have found Hilda Masters.” 

Mr Salter looked up. 

“Hilda Masters ? Who is she ?” 

“You remember, Mr. Salter, that in a secret 
drawer in Merrivan’s room was found a marriage 
certificate.” 

“I remember. It was reported in the newspaper. 
The marriage certificate of an old servant. And 
it was afterwards stolen from you by the ghost 
called Selim. Was that the name of the woman 
who was married? And you have found her, you 
say?” 

Andy took a copy of the statement from his 
pocket and laid it on the desk before the Justice, 
and Mr. Salter looked at it for a long time before 
he fixed a pair of folding horn-rimmed glasses on 
his nose and began to read. 

He read slowly, very slowly. It seemed to Andy 
that he assessed the value of every word. Once he 
turned back and read a page all over again. Five 
—ten—fifteen minutes passed in a silence punctuated 
only by the swish of a turned page. And Andy 


296 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


grew impatient, remembering the girl in the car 
outside. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Salter as he put the manuscript 
down, “the ghost of the valley is laid—the greatest 
of all those malignant shapes that haunt us, Dr. 
Macleod.” 

Andy could not follow him readily, and the other 
saw he was puzzled and came to the rescue. 

“Selim,” he said, “revealed in his naked hideous¬ 
ness—the seller of souls, the breaker of hearts, 
the gambler in lives. This is he.” He tapped the 
manuscript, and Andy saw that his eyes were un¬ 
naturally bright. But of all the miracles most 
startling it seemed that his face had filled out and 
the deeply-scored lines had vanished. 

He must have touched a secret bell, for Tilling 
came in. 

“Bring me a bottle of green seal port, Tilling,” 
he said, and when the servitor had gone out, “you 
have achieved a triumph—an even greater triumph 
than if you had laid your hand on the shoulder of 
Abraham Selim. We must celebrate your success, 
doctor.” 

“I am afraid I cannot wait. The fact is, Miss 
Nelson is waiting outside in my car.” 

Salter jumped up, turned white, and sat down 
again. 

“I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Really, it 
was unpardonable of me to leave her there and of 
you not to tell me. Please bring her in.” 

“And you nearly killed him,” said Andy. “At 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 297 

least the news that you were sitting outside. I 
don’t like the look of him, Stella.” 

Mr. Salter had recovered before they returned 
and was watching Tilling as he poured the precious 
wine into the glasses. 

“Forgive me for not getting up,” smiled Salter. 
“So you helped my burglar?” 

“Did Andy tell you?” she asked in alarm. 

“No, Andy didn’t tell me. You will drink a 
glass of port, Miss Nelson? No? It was old wine 
when your father was a baby.” 

He raised his glass to her and drank. 

“And Miss Masters, or Mrs. Bonsor, what is go¬ 
ing to happen to her?” he asked. 

“I rather think that she will not wait in London. 
She has confessed to an indictable crime, but it is 
so old that I doubt if we could move in the matter 
even if. we would. From certain indications I 
should say that this much-married lady will make 
yet a fourth plunge into the troubled sea of 
matrimony.” 

Salter nodded. 

“Poor soul!” he said softly. “Poor duped soul!” 

Andy had not expected to find sympathy for Mrs. 
Crafton-Bonsor in the magistrate. 

“She is not particularly poor,” he said drily, 
“Scottie, who is something of an expert, estimates 
her jewels as being worth a hundred thousand, and 
there are sundry properties in the States. What I 
wanted particularly to see you about was Severn. 
Have you any idea where he is? I cannot help 


298 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


feeling that Selim used the marriage for his own 
profit!” 

“He did,” said Salter. “Selim represented to 
Mr. Severn that the woman was dead, and Severn 
married again, and, I believe, had children. Once 
he was safely married Selim held his bigamy and 
the illegitimacy of his children over his head, and 
extracted from him enormous sums of money. The 
contract you found was a fake. Selim never paid 
my friend a penny. He merely cancelled an old 
obligation—that to which the woman refers in her 
statement—and substituted one more onerous. And 
as the years went on his cupidity found new methods 
of extortion. You see, doctor, I am being frank 
with you. I did know more about Severn’s con¬ 
cerns than I have stated.” 

“I never doubted that,” smiled Andy. 

“And you, young lady—you also are nearing 
the end of the great chase. You have not 
come through this past month without losing some¬ 
thing.” 

“And finding something too, Mr. Salter,” she 
said. 

He looked at Andy, and from him to the girl. 

“That is true, I hope,” he said quietly. “Your 
little ghost—was it laid?” 

She nodded. 

“And your—Andy’s? I suppose he has adopted 
all our ghosts; taken them on to his own broad 
shoulders? May you soon conjure up and destroy 
the last!” 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


299 

To the accompaniment of this good wish they 
left him. 

Andy slept through the afternoon, and, as soon 
as it was dark, he began his vigil in the long, empty 
room. The night passed without any interruption 
to his quiet. Soon after daybreak, as he was look¬ 
ing through the front window across the dusky 
green, he saw Stella come out from the house, carry¬ 
ing something in her hand, and drew back to cover. 
She made straight for the house, and, to his amaze¬ 
ment, knocked. He opened the door for her. 

“I’ve brought you over some coffee and sand¬ 
wiches, Andrew,” she said. “Poor dear, you must 
be very tired.” 

“How did you know I was staying here?” 

“Oh, I guessed that. When you didn’t come 
last night I was pretty certain you were on ghost 
duty.” 

“You queer girl! And I purposely did not tell 
you.” 

“And seeing me come into the house in the early 
morning, you suspected the worst?” She pinched 
his ear. “You heard nothing and saw nothing, I 
suppose ?” 

“N thing,” said Andy. 

She glanced along the gloomy passage and shook 
her he ad. 

“I don’t, think I should like to be a detective,” 
she said. “Andy, aren’t you ever afraid?” 

“Often,” said Andy, “when I think of the kind 
of home I’m going to give you-” 



300 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“Let’s talk about it,” said Stella, and they sat 
down in the haunted room until the sun came in 
at the windows, and talked of houses and flats and 
the high cost of furnishing. 

At eleven o’clock Andy, bearing no signs of his 
sleepless night, presented himself at the Great 
Metropolitan Hotel. There were yet one or two 
points that he wanted clearing up. 

“Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor has gone, sir,” said the 
clerk. 

“Gone?” said Andy in surprise. “When did 
she go?” 

“Yesterday afternoon, sir. She and Professor 
Bellingham went together.” 

“Has she taken her baggage?” 

“All of it, sir.” 

“Do you know where it has gone?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea. She said she was 
going to the sea for a few days.” 

It was a set-back for Andy. 

He called at 73 Castle Street in the hope of finding 
Scottie. He found, instead, the embarrassed Mr. 
Martin. 

“No, doctor, Scottie hasn’t been here for three 
days.” 

“And he didn’t give you any instructions about 
running this den of thieves?” asked Andy. 

“No, sir,” said Martin. There was a complacency 
about his tone that told Andy that he was lying. 

No useful purpose could be served by cross- 
examining one whose respect for the truth was 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


30 1 


conspicuously minus at any time, and Andy returned 
to Beverley Green and to bed. 

At nine o’clock he let himself into the Merrivan 
house. During the day Johnston had placed an 
arm-chair in the room. It was a comfortable arm¬ 
chair, and Andy found himself nodding. 

“This won’t do,” he said to himself, and, walking 
to the front window, opened it to let in the cool 
air. 

Beverley Church struck one o’clock, and still 
there was no sign of the visitor. He had removed 
the bolt from the back window, being sure that that 
was the way the stranger had entered, when 
Johnston had seen him at the window. 

Two o’clock and Andy’s chin was on his breast, 
and his mind was filled with confused thoughts of 
Stella and Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor. 

And then he heard a sound, and was wide awake 
in an instant. Looking toward the back window, 
he saw a dark figure against the faint light. The 
electric current had been restored at his request 
during the day, and he moved stealthily to the 
switch. The man outside was gently raising the 
lower sash. Higher and higher it came, and then 
Andy heard the soft pad of feet striking the floor. 
Still he did not turn on the light, but waited, and 
then: 

“Get up and face me, Abraham Selim, you 
dog!” 

The voice rang out thunderously in that empty 


room. 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


3° 2 

“Get up!” it called again, and Andy turned on 
the light. 

Standing with his back to the open window was 
a man in a yellow dressing-gown, and in his ex¬ 
tended hand, pointing straight at his invisible enemy, 
was a long-barrelled revolver. 

Salter! Boyd Salter! 

Andy gave a gasp. Then it was Boyd Salter, 
that cool, lanquid man who had fenced with him 
so skilfully, so surely! 

His eyes were wide open, fixed, vacant. 

He was asleep. Andrew had known that when 
he heard the slurred, harsh voice. 

“Take that, you damned villain!” 

The figure hissed the word, and there was a click. 
And then he saw Salter’s head incline towards the 
floor. He was looking down upon the spot where 
Merrivan had been found, then slowly he went on 
his knees and his groping palms touched the body 
that he saw. And all the time he was talking to 
himself; little sobbing sounds of hateful gratifica¬ 
tion escaped him. 

He was reconstructing the crime—not for the 
first time. Night after night Salter had come down 
from his bed and had gone over and over every 
incident of the murder. It was queer to see him 
searching a desk that was not there, and unlock¬ 
ing a safe that had been removed, but Andrew 
watched him, fascinated, as he struck a match and 
set light, as he thought, to a heap of papers he 
had placed on the hearth. Then he stopped. It 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


303 


was at the spot where the letter had been found. 

“You won’t send any more letters, Merrivan, 
damn you! No more letters put under doors. That 
letter was for me, wasn’t it?” He turned to 
where he thought the body was lying. “For me?” 
His gaze suddenly shifted. He seemed to be picking 
up something. “I must take the girl’s scarf,” he 
muttered. “Poor Stella! This fiend will not hurt 
you. I’ll take it.” He put his hand into his pocket 
as though he were placing something there. “If 
they find it they’ll think that you were here when 
I shot him.” 

Andrew gasped. 

Now it was as clear as light to him. Abraham 
Selim and Merrivan were one and the same person, 
and the threatening letter which he had thought had 
been received by Merrivan had really been written 
by him. That was it! Merrivan was going out 
that night to leave the letter at the Hall; had 
written it, folded it, and had no time to address an 
envelope before doom appeared to him. 

Salter was moving slowly round the room. A 
few seconds later and he had passed through the 
window. He closed it behind him, but Andrew 
was out in the garden in a few seconds, trailing the 
sleep-walker as with stealthy strides he passed into 
the orchard, and then: 

“Stand out of my way, damn you!” 

It was Salter’s voice, and again came the click 
of the pistol. 

So that was how Sweeny died? Sweeny was 


3°4 


THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


there. He had probably discovered the identity 
of Selim, and was watching the house that night. 
It was so simple now. Merrivan had blackmailed 
Salter. But who was Severn—Severn, the husband 
of Hilda Masters? 

He followed the walker under the trees of the 
orchard and out through a gate in the hedge. Salter 
was on his own estate now, and moved with that 
curious, deliberate stride which is the sleep-walker’s 
own. Still keeping him in sight, Andrew followed. 
The man kept to a path that led to Spring Covert, 
then turned off abruptly to the left, crossing the 
grass-land that would lead him directly to Beverley 
Hall. 

He had hardly taken a dozen paces when out of 
the grass came a flash of flame, there was a deafen¬ 
ing explosion, and Salter stumbled forward and fell. 
Andy was at his side in a second, but the figure was 
motionless. 

He flashed his lamp and shouted for help, and a 
voice almost at once answered him. It proved to 
be the gamekeeper he had met before, Madding. 

“What’s wrong, sir?” said Madding when he had 
recognised Andy. “You must have tripped over 
one of those alarm guns. We have put several in 
the park to trap the poachers. My God!” he 
gasped. “That’s Mr. Salter!” 

They turned the stricken man on his back; Andy 
pulled open the pyjamas and listened for a minute 
to Salter’s breast. 

“I am afraid he’s dead,” he said. 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


305 

“Dead?” said the other, awe-stricken. “There 
was no shot in the gun.” 

“It woke him, and I think the shock must have 
killed him, and, on the whole, Madding, I think it 
as well that he died that way.”i 

“The last ghost is laid.” 

Andy came into the Nelsons’ sitting-room and 
sank wearily into a chair. 

“What is the last, dear?” Stella seated herself 
on an arm of the chair and laid her hand on his 
head. 

“That’s the last.” 

Andy took a newspaper cutting from his pocket 
and gave it into her hands. 

“I found that in Salter’s safe. Oh yes, the boy 
has taken it very well. They expected such an end. 
They knew that he had been sleep-walking by the 
mud they found on the legs of his pyjamas, and they 
had a guard outside his door. But the old Hall 
has half a dozen secret stairways, and he got away 
every time. What do you think of that ?” 

She read the cutting again. It was from The 
Times of 1889: 

“In accordance with the conditions of the late Mr. 
Philip Boyd Salter’s will, Mr. John Severn, his nep¬ 
hew, who is his uncle’s sole heir, will assume the 
name and style of John Boyd Salter. A statutory 
declaration to this effect appears in our legal adver¬ 
tisement columns of to-day’s date.” 


306 THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS 


“That is the story,” said Andy. “Severn was 
Boyd Salter all the time; if I had had the sense to 
look up the will of his uncle I should have known a 
month ago. He died a happy man. For years he 
has lived under the shadow of his guilt, and with 
the knowledge that, if Merrivan spoke, his son 
would have no title to the estate, which cannot be 
left to anybody but legal heirs. And when I 
brought him the statement of Hilda Masters—she 
married Scottie, by the way, the day before they left 
—a statement which proved the legality of his mar¬ 
riage with the mother of his son, do you remember 
how I told you he seemed suddenly to grow twenty 
years younger? 

“It puzzled me when he said that the biggest 
ghost had been laid, but he spoke the truth. That 
was the greatest terror. To save his boy from 
disgrace he killed Merrivan or Selim. To save him 
he got into Wilmot’s house dressed as a gamekeeper 
and stole and burnt the marriage certificate.” 

“How did he know it was there?” 

“Downer revealed it in that shocking article he 
wrote about us.” 

“What happens to Selim’s fortune—it goes to 
Arthur Wilmot?” 

Andy shook his head. 

“It goes to swell the wealth of Mrs Professor 
Bellingham,” he said. “It is rather tragic, isn’t 
it?” 

She laughed and slipped her arm about his neck. 

“Andy, aren’t I a ghost, too? You’re not going 


THE LAYING OF GHOSTS 


307 


away until you lay my unquiet spirit, are you?” 

“You’re a shameless woman,” said Andy. “You 
always were.” 

There was a happy little interregnum of silence. 

“Scottie is clever,” she said suddenly. 

“Clever? Well, yes, I suppose he is. Why do 
you say that?” 

“Look how quickly Scottie got—the marriage 
licence-” f 

A week later Mr. Downer heard the news. He 
neither grieved nor did he rejoice. He was a man 
of business, and weddings and murders had one 
value. Getting the Megaphone on the wire, he was 
put through to the City editor. 

“See Macleod’s married that Nelson girl. I can 
give you a column of real good inside stuff about 
that engagement. Sure I can get a picture of her. 
She’d do anything for me. Two columns? All 
right!” 


THE END 








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